The oak stood in the heart of the village like a memory that refused to die.
Its roots coiled deep into the soil, older than the houses that leaned around it, older even than the names people still dared to speak. On still mornings, when mist clung to the grass and the wind hadn’t yet remembered how to move, you could hear it breathe.
Lyra had grown up listening to that breath.
As a child, she’d believed there were ghosts inside the trunk — ancestors whispering lullabies. As a teenager, she’d convinced herself it was just the wind. But lately, the sound had changed. There was something underneath it, a faint pulse, too deliberate to be nature.
That morning, the hum was waiting for her.
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The Voice Beneath the Bark
She pressed her ear to the rough bark, eyes closed. The wood was co
