In the quiet town of Elmsworth, where the fog rolled in like a living thing and the trees whispered secrets to those who dared to listen, there was an old legend that had been passed down through generations. It spoke of the Hollow Path, a trail that led into the heart of the woods, where no one ever returned. Most dismissed it as a tale meant to scare children, but some believed it held truth. The path itself was not marked by any sign or boundary, just a narrow strip of earth between two thick walls of pine and birch. It was said that if you walked it long enough, you would find yourself standing at the edge of a clearing where the air was still and the silence was heavier than stone. No birds sang there, no wind stirred the leaves. Just an eerie hush that pressed against your skin. Elias, a quiet man with a weathered face and eyes that had seen too much, had always been drawn to the story. He had heard it from his grandmother as a child, and though she warned him never to go near the path, he couldn’t help but wonder what lay beyond. One autumn evening, when the sky was the color of bruised fruit and the wind carried the scent of damp earth, Elias decided to walk the Hollow Path. He followed the trail for what felt like hours, though time seemed to stretch and twist around him. The trees grew taller, their branches weaving together to form a tunnel of shadow. The ground was soft beneath his boots, and every step echoed faintly, as if the forest itself were listening. At times, he thought he heard voices, low and indistinct, calling his name. But when he turned, there was no one there. Then, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, he reached the clearing. It was unlike anything he had ever seen. The grass was unnaturally green, and the air shimmered with a pale light that seemed to come from nowhere. In the center stood a single tree, its bark etched with strange symbols that pulsed faintly, as if alive. Around it, small stones formed a circle, each carved with a name. Elias stepped closer, his breath shallow. He recognized some of the names—people who had vanished years ago, their disappearances never explained. His own name was among them, carved in the same hand that had written the others. A chill ran down his spine, but something inside him urged him forward. As he reached out to touch the tree, the symbols flared with light, and the world around him shifted. The clearing dissolved, and he found himself standing on the edge of the path once more, the sky now dark with stars. The forest was silent, the wind gone. He looked back, but the clearing was gone, as if it had never existed. When he returned to town, no one believed his story. They laughed, they shrugged, they said he had been dreaming. But Elias knew the truth. He could feel it in his bones, in the way the air tasted different, in the way his hands trembled when he touched the wood of his door. Days passed, and he began to notice things. A faint whisper in the wind, a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. He would wake in the middle of the night, certain that someone was watching him. And then, one morning, he woke to find the name "Elias" carved into the doorframe, just like the others. He tried to leave the town, but the roads twisted strangely, leading him back to the same place. The people of Elmsworth spoke of him in hushed tones, as if he were already gone. And slowly, piece by piece, he began to fade—not physically, but in the way people remembered him. His name was erased from the records, his belongings scattered, his presence forgotten. And so, the legend continued, passed down once more, as the Hollow Path waited, patient and silent, for the next soul to wander its way.