The town of Eldermoor was built on the edge of a forest that had long been known for its strange silence. No birds sang there, and no wind stirred the trees. The locals spoke of it in hushed tones, calling it "the Hollow Grove." Few ever ventured into its depths, and those who did often returned with hollow eyes and stories they couldn’t explain. It began with the children. A boy named Eli disappeared one summer evening while chasing a firefly. His parents searched the woods until dawn, but there was no sign of him. They found his backpack near the creek, half-filled with berries and a small notebook he’d kept by his bed. The next day, another child, Lila, vanished while walking home from school. Her shoes were left by the path, as if she had simply stepped out of them. The townspeople started to notice other oddities. Puddles of water would appear overnight in places where there was no rain. The old clock tower at the center of town stopped working, its hands frozen at 3:07. Some claimed they heard whispers in the wind, voices speaking in a language no one could understand. Others swore they saw shadows moving where there was no light. A group of teenagers, curious and reckless, decided to investigate. They brought flashlights and a map of the area, determined to find the truth. They followed the same paths the children had taken, but the deeper they went, the more the air thickened. The trees grew taller, their branches forming a canopy so dense that even the sun struggled to reach the ground. The further they walked, the quieter it became—until all sound was swallowed by an unnatural stillness. They came upon a clearing where the grass was unnaturally green, and the soil was soft and warm underfoot. In the center stood a stone circle, covered in moss and ivy. The teens circled it, touching the stones, feeling a faint vibration beneath their fingers. One of them, Mara, reached into her bag and pulled out a flashlight. As she shone it into the circle, the light reflected back at her, not from the stones, but from something inside them. It was like looking into a mirror, but the reflection wasn’t her face—it was a child’s, wide-eyed and silent. They ran, but the forest changed around them. Paths twisted into unfamiliar directions, and the sky turned a deep, unnatural blue. When they finally stumbled out of the trees, it was nightfall, and the town was quiet. No one had seen them leave, and no one believed their story. They were dismissed as kids with overactive imaginations. The disappearances continued. A baker, a teacher, a librarian. Each time, their belongings were left behind, untouched. The townspeople grew fearful, but no one dared to enter the grove again. Some began to whisper that the forest was alive, that it was taking what it wanted and leaving nothing behind. One night, a man named Harlan, a retired journalist, decided to go alone. He carried a journal and a camera, determined to document the truth. He entered the grove at dusk, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and something sweet, almost like honey. He moved carefully, avoiding the patches of soft soil, which seemed to pulse slightly under his feet. He found the stone circle again, but this time, the stones were different—shaped like human faces, worn smooth by time. He knelt and placed his hand on one of them. A cold rush of air passed through him, and for a moment, he saw images—children playing, laughing, then vanishing into the trees. He saw himself, standing there, watching. When he returned to the town, he didn’t speak of what he saw. He only wrote in his journal, filling pages with cryptic notes and sketches of the stones. Then, one morning, he was gone. His door was unlocked, his coffee still warm, and his journal open to a page that read: *“They are not lost. They are waiting.”* No one has ever entered the grove again. But sometimes, on quiet nights, when the wind is just right, you can hear the echo of laughter, distant and sweet, as if the forest is holding its breath, waiting for someone to return.