The town of Eldergrove had always been quiet, nestled deep in the forest where the trees grew so tall they seemed to touch the sky. Most people didn’t know it existed, and those who did often whispered about strange occurrences that happened only at night. The locals said that if you walked too far into the woods, you’d hear a voice calling your name, though no one could ever tell from where. One summer, a young historian named Elara arrived in Eldergrove, drawn by a faded map she had found in an old bookshop. It marked a place called “The Hollow,” a forgotten ruin hidden among the roots of the oldest tree in the forest. She believed it might be connected to an ancient legend about a curse tied to the land itself. She spent days wandering the woods, sketching the trees, collecting soil samples, and speaking with the few villagers who would speak to her. They were wary, their eyes darting toward the trees as if expecting something to emerge. One old woman gave her a small carved stone, saying it was a charm to ward off the "old ones." Elara took it without question, though she wasn’t sure what she believed anymore. On the third night, she set up camp near the base of the great tree, its bark gnarled and twisted like the fingers of a sleeping giant. As the moon rose, the air grew still, and the usual sounds of the forest faded into silence. Then, the wind began to move—not from the sky, but from the ground, rising in slow, deliberate waves. The leaves above shivered, and the shadows beneath the tree lengthened unnaturally. Elara lit a small fire, its flickering light casting strange shapes on the moss-covered stones around her. She heard the voice then—a soft, melodic whisper, repeating her name over and over. She turned, but there was no one there. The voice wasn’t loud, but it was close, like it was right beside her ear. She tried to ignore it, focusing instead on her notes. But the whispers grew louder, more insistent, until they formed words: *“You are not the first.”* A chill ran down her spine. She stood, gathering her things, but the path behind her had vanished. In its place was a circle of standing stones, each etched with symbols she didn’t recognize. The air smelled of damp earth and something older, something that had not been disturbed for centuries. As she stepped forward, the whispering stopped. The silence was worse than the noise. She reached out to touch one of the stones, and the moment her fingers brushed the surface, a gust of wind howled through the trees, knocking her off her feet. When she opened her eyes, the stones were gone, and the forest around her had changed. The trees were taller, the shadows deeper, and the air carried a faint hum, like a song just beyond hearing. She stumbled back toward her camp, but the fire was gone, and the stars above had shifted. The map she had carried was now blank, the ink having vanished as if it had never been there. She sat on the cold ground, trembling, as the whispers returned—this time, not just her name, but the names of others. A man named Elias, a woman named Mira, a boy named Finn. Each name came with a memory, not hers, but someone else’s. She saw them in flashes—Elias falling into a pit of roots, Mira screaming as the ground swallowed her whole, Finn laughing before he disappeared into the mist. When dawn finally broke, the forest was silent again. The trees stood as they always had, the air clear and still. Elara packed her things, leaving the carved stone behind, unsure if it was a blessing or a curse. She walked out of the woods, the path now familiar, the world outside unchanged. But as she reached the edge of the forest, she glanced back one last time. The great tree was gone, replaced by a field of wildflowers. And in the center of the field stood a single stone, etched with her name. She never spoke of what she saw, but sometimes, when the wind blew just right, she swore she could hear the whispers again. Not calling her, but reminding her. That the past is never truly buried, and that some places remember more than we do.