When She Walked With Crows

Where the Forest Remembers

Chapter Six — Where the Forest Remembers

Silas didn’t breathe at first.

The girl’s words drifted through the hollow like dust caught in sunlight — soft, weightless, but impossible to ignore.

It’s where the forest remembers.

He wasn’t sure what he expected her to say, but it wasn’t that. Not something that made the air feel older. Not something that made the hollow feel like it was holding its breath.

Anwen stepped closer, her boots barely disturbing the moss. Ink shifted on her shoulder, feathers brushing her cheek as if steadying her. Or steadying him.

Silas swallowed. “Remembers what?”

She hesitated, eyes flicking to the stone beneath him. “Everything,” she said quietly. “Or… almost everything.”

That didn’t help. But the way she said it — careful, like she was afraid of saying too much — made him lean forward anyway.

“How do you know that?”

Anwen’s fingers brushed Ink’s wing. “Because I grew up here.”

Silas blinked. “In the forest?”

“In the village,” she corrected softly. “But the forest… it’s always been part of us.”

Us. The word felt heavier than it should.

Silas looked down at the carvings again. The shapes seemed to shift in the corner of his vision, like they were trying to rearrange themselves into something he could understand.

He didn’t.

But he felt something. A warmth beneath the stone. A hum beneath his skin. A pull he couldn’t explain.

He exhaled shakily. “Why did you bring me here?”

Anwen’s eyes widened. “I didn’t.”

Silas frowned. “You pointed.”

“I pointed because Ink told me to.” She said it like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Silas stared at the crow. Ink blinked back, unimpressed.

“Right,” Silas muttered. “Of course.”

Anwen stepped closer, her gaze softening. “He doesn’t bring people here. Not usually.”

“Why me?”

She didn’t answer. Not because she didn’t want to — but because she didn’t know.

Silas looked away, suddenly uncomfortable under her gaze. The forest felt too quiet now, like it was listening.

He rubbed his palms against his jeans. “My dad would hate this.”

Anwen tilted her head. “Why?”

Silas let out a humorless laugh. “Because he thinks I’m… I don’t know. Fragile. Or broken. Or something.”

“You’re not,” she said immediately.

He didn’t look at her. “He smiles all the time now. Like nothing happened. Like she didn’t—” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard. “Like she didn’t die.”

Anwen’s breath caught, but she didn’t move away.

Silas clenched his fists. “He just keeps smiling. And I hate it. I hate that he can do that.”

The words came out sharper than he meant. Too loud for the hollow. Too loud for the forest.

Ink fluttered his wings, startled.

Silas dragged a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I just— I don’t understand him.”

Anwen stepped closer, her voice barely above a whisper. “My family is gone too.”

Silas froze.

She wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at the trees, at the thin strands of sunlight filtering through the branches.

“My father got sick,” she murmured. “A fever. It swept through the village one winter. Most people recovered. He didn’t.”

Her fingers curled gently into the moss.

“My mother tried to take care of him. She barely slept. Barely ate. And when he died…” Her voice thinned, soft as a breath. “She just… faded. Like the world took too much from her all at once.”

Silas felt something twist in his chest.

Anwen’s eyes stayed on the forest. “I was little. I didn’t understand it then. But I remember the sound of her breathing. How it got quieter every day. Like she was trying not to disturb the house.”

She finally looked at him — not with pity, but with recognition.

“So when you talk about your dad,” she said softly, “I don’t think he doesn’t care. I think he’s trying to hold onto something. The way my mother tried to hold onto my father.”

Silas’s breath caught.

Ink hopped closer, tapping Silas’s knee with his beak, as if punctuating her words.

Silas blinked — and Ink hopped onto his head.

“Hey—!” Silas sputtered.

Ink tapped his skull twice, like a tiny, judgmental pat.

Anwen let out a startled laugh — bright, soft, real.

Silas stared at her. She was smiling. And for a moment, the hollow felt warmer.

He felt something tug at his own mouth — a small, reluctant smile he didn’t mean to show.

Anwen gasped.

Her hand flew to her chest, eyes widening like she’d just seen something precious and unexpected.

Silas’s smile vanished instantly. “What? What’s wrong?”

She shook her head quickly. “Nothing. I just—” She swayed.

Silas shot to his feet. “Whoa— hey—”

He caught her elbow as she stumbled. Ink cawed in alarm, fluttering to the ground.

“I’m fine,” she murmured, though her face had gone pale.

“You’re not,” Silas said, more sharply than he intended. “Come on. Let’s get you back.”

She didn’t argue.

He helped her through the trees, her steps slow but steady. When they reached the house with the blue door, Silas noticed things he hadn’t before:

The sagging porch. The cracked window. The peeling paint. The way she hesitated before opening the door, like she didn’t want him to see.

Silas swallowed. “Anwen… do you need help?”

She blinked at him, startled.

“I mean—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I can fix stuff. A little. If you want.”

Her eyes softened. A small, grateful smile tugged at her lips.

“I’d like that,” she whispered.

And Silas felt something warm settle in his chest — something he didn’t have a name for yet.

But the forest did.

Because behind them, in the hollow they’d left behind, the stone hummed once — faint and low — like a heartbeat waking up.