In the quiet village of Eldermoor, nestled between jagged hills and dense woods, there was a legend whispered only in hushed tones. It spoke of an ancient curse that had long since faded from the minds of most, but still lingered in the bones of the land. No one knew exactly where it began, only that it had been tied to the old stone circle at the edge of the forest—Elmstone Circle. The circle itself was no more than a few weathered monoliths, half-buried in moss and lichen, their surfaces etched with symbols that no scholar could decipher. Locals claimed that those who stepped too close on certain nights would hear voices, faint and sorrowful, as if the stones themselves were mourning something lost. But no one ever dared to stay long enough to find out what. One autumn evening, a young woman named Lira arrived in Eldermoor. She was a traveler, not a local, and she had heard the stories from a merchant in the next town. Intrigued by the mystery, she sought out the village elder, a stooped man named Thorne, who had lived in Eldermoor for over sixty years. He warned her against going near the stone circle, but Lira was not one to be easily dissuaded. That night, under a sky heavy with stars, Lira made her way through the forest. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, and the silence was so profound it seemed to press against her ears. When she reached the circle, the moonlight filtered through the trees in pale beams, casting strange shadows across the stones. She touched one of them, and a chill ran up her spine, though the air was warm. As she stood there, the wind picked up, carrying with it a low, mournful hum. It wasn’t the sound of the wind, nor of any animal. It was something else—something ancient. Lira closed her eyes, and for a moment, she felt as though she were standing in another time, surrounded by figures cloaked in mist, their faces hidden beneath hoods. They moved without sound, their hands reaching toward her, not in anger, but in longing. She opened her eyes and found herself alone again, the circle silent once more. But the feeling remained—a presence, lingering just beyond the veil of reality. She left the circle that night, but something had changed. The villagers noticed it first. Her eyes had a different gleam, and when she spoke, her voice carried a strange cadence, as if she were speaking from a place unseen. Over the following weeks, Lira became more withdrawn, spending long hours in the forest, sometimes returning with odd trinkets—shards of bone, feathers, and pieces of metal that did not belong to any known era. The villagers grew uneasy, and even the elder, Thorne, began to watch her with wary eyes. One night, a storm rolled in, dark and violent. The wind howled through the valley, and the trees groaned as if in pain. Lira was seen wandering the forest again, this time with a lantern in hand. The villagers tried to stop her, but she refused to explain where she was going. When dawn broke, she was gone. The next morning, the village found the stone circle untouched, but the forest around it was eerily still. No birds sang, no insects buzzed. And in the clearing, a single footprint led from the circle into the deeper woods, disappearing into the mist. Thorne went to the circle alone that day, his breath visible in the cold air. He knelt beside one of the stones and traced the ancient symbols with his fingers. As he did, a whisper brushed against his ear, not loud, but clear. It said, *“She is still here.”* He never spoke of what he heard after that. But the villagers noticed that the forest had begun to change. The trees grew taller, their branches twisted in unnatural shapes. The wind carried voices that no one could identify. And in the dead of night, they would sometimes see a figure standing at the edge of the forest, watching the village with hollow eyes. No one ever saw Lira again, but the legend of the curse remained. Some say she became part of the land, bound to the stones and the whispers that drifted through the trees. Others believe she simply disappeared, leaving behind a story that would never be fully told. And in the quiet moments between dreams and waking, some still hear the wind calling her name, soft and sorrowful, as if waiting for someone to answer.