The village of Elmhollow was built on the edge of a forgotten forest, where the trees grew in twisted spirals and the wind carried whispers that no one could quite understand. It was said that long ago, before the first settlers arrived, the land belonged to an ancient people who had vanished without a trace. Their name was lost to time, but their presence lingered in the bones of the earth. One autumn, a young cartographer named Elias came to the village, drawn by rumors of an old map hidden in the local archive. He was not a man of superstition, but he believed in the power of stories. The villagers spoke in hushed tones about the "Curse of the Hollow Tree," a legend that warned against disturbing the roots of the great oak that stood at the heart of the forest. They said that those who trespassed there never returned, or if they did, they were changed—eyes too bright, voices too soft, as though something had taken hold of them from within. Elias dismissed the tale as folklore, but he found himself fascinated by the map. It was drawn in faded ink, its lines curling like smoke, marking a path through the woods that led to a place called "The Hollow." No other details were given, only a single word scrawled in the margin: *Wait.* He set out on his journey just after dawn, the air crisp with the scent of damp earth and pine. The forest was quiet, almost too quiet, as if it held its breath. The deeper he went, the more the light seemed to dim, as though the sun itself had grown wary of the trees. The path on the map was barely visible, but Elias followed it anyway, guided by instinct and the strange pull that had been growing in his chest since he first saw the parchment. At last, he reached the Hollow—a clearing where the ground sloped downward into a basin of black soil. In the center stood the ancient oak, its bark cracked and gnarled, its branches stretching like skeletal fingers toward the sky. A deep hole yawned at its base, half-hidden by moss and roots. Elias knelt beside it, brushing away the leaves, and felt a cold draft rise from within, carrying with it a faint hum, like a voice just beyond hearing. He pulled out his journal and began to write, trying to capture the moment. But as he wrote, the words on the page began to shift, rearranging themselves into a language he did not recognize. His hand trembled, and when he looked up, the shadows around him seemed to move, not with the wind, but of their own accord. A rustling sound came from the tree, low and rhythmic, like breathing. Elias stepped back, heart pounding, but then he heard it—a whisper, not in the wind, but in his mind. It was not a voice, but a feeling, a memory that wasn't his. He saw flashes of figures in robes, their faces obscured, standing in a circle around the tree, chanting. He saw the same tree, younger and taller, surrounded by a crowd of villagers, their eyes wide with fear. Then the whisper stopped. The forest was still again, but something had changed. Elias felt lighter, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, yet also emptier, as though a part of him had been left behind in the dark. He turned to leave, but the path had disappeared. The trees now stood in unfamiliar patterns, their trunks twisted into impossible shapes. He tried to retrace his steps, but every direction led back to the Hollow. The sun had long since set, and the stars above seemed to flicker like dying embers. As he sat beneath the oak, waiting for the morning, he noticed a small object near the base of the tree. It was a key, made of tarnished silver, its surface etched with symbols that matched those on the map. He pocketed it, unsure of what it meant, but certain that it was meant for him. When he finally emerged from the forest, the village was asleep, its lanterns glowing like fireflies in the night. He returned to the archive, desperate to find answers, but the map had vanished. The clerk claimed he had never seen it before. The villagers avoided his gaze, their expressions unreadable. Elias kept the key, but he never used it. He would sometimes wake in the middle of the night, hearing the whisper again, and feel the pull of the forest calling him back. He wondered if the curse was not in the tree, but in the act of seeking. Perhaps some mysteries were not meant to be solved, but remembered. And maybe, somewhere in the depths of the woods, the tree still waited, holding its breath, waiting for the next soul to come looking.