The town of Hollowbrook had always been quiet, nestled in a valley where the trees grew too close and the wind carried whispers that didn’t belong to anyone. It was the kind of place people moved away from, not toward. But for those who stayed, there were stories—stories that weren’t meant to be spoken aloud. Old Mrs. Halloway, who lived on the edge of the woods with her cat named Soot, told them to the children who dared to listen. She spoke of the “Whispering Things,” creatures that roamed the forest at dusk, their voices like rustling leaves and distant laughter. No one believed her, of course. Not until the day the boy from the next village disappeared. He was just a boy, no older than ten, chasing a butterfly into the trees. His mother found his backpack near the stream, but the boy was gone. The search party spent days combing the woods, finding nothing but old animal tracks and a single footprint that didn’t match any human or known creature. They called it an accident, a tragic misstep into the wild. But the townspeople knew better. That night, the wind changed. It came in low, almost mournful, and the trees seemed to lean inward, as if listening. A few nights later, a group of teenagers went out to investigate. They brought flashlights and a camera, thinking they’d find something to prove the legends wrong. What they found instead was a clearing bathed in silver light, where the grass shimmered and the air felt thick with presence. They saw nothing, but heard everything—a chorus of voices, soft and melodic, speaking in a language that wasn’t theirs. When they ran back, they couldn’t explain what they’d heard, only that it made their skin crawl. The following weeks brought more strange occurrences. Lights flickered in empty rooms, shadows moved when no one was there, and the local radio station began playing static that sounded like a child’s lullaby. People started leaving. Some said they heard the Whispering Things calling their names, others said they saw figures in the trees, always just out of reach. The ones who stayed claimed they could feel the forest watching them, as if it had its own mind, its own desires. One evening, a woman named Elara wandered into the woods, drawn by a dream she couldn’t remember. She had seen the same dream every night for weeks: a field of white flowers, a path leading into the trees, and a figure standing at the end. She followed it, not knowing why, only that she had to. The forest was different that night. The air was heavier, the silence deeper. She reached the clearing, and there, standing beneath a tree with branches like fingers, was a being unlike anything she had ever seen. It was tall, taller than a man, with skin like bark and eyes like polished stone. Its voice was not a voice, but a feeling, a hum that vibrated in her bones. It did not speak words, but she understood. It was not a monster, nor a god, but something in between. It was the keeper of the forest, the guardian of secrets, and it had been waiting for someone to come. Elara fell to her knees, not in fear, but in awe. The being raised a hand, and the flowers around her bloomed in a sudden burst of color. Then, without a sound, it vanished, leaving only a single petal in her palm. She returned to town, silent and changed. No one asked what happened, because they already knew. The forest had chosen her. And though she never spoke of it, the whispers in the trees grew louder, more insistent. The people of Hollowbrook began to wonder if the Whispering Things were not just creatures, but memories—echoes of something ancient, something forgotten, something still searching. And as the seasons turned, the forest remained, waiting. Watching. Listening. Always listening.