She Who Wakes the Wood



The trees had names once. She took them.
On the night the moon turned the color of cold glass, the elf walked into the old forest and did not ask permission. Her palm opened, and the first spirit rose like blue smoke from a wound in the bark. Another followed. Then the trunks leaned in, red eyes kindling where knots had been, jaws forming in the dark.
She smiled, small and wrong, and the wood answered.
Mist climbed her hem. Branches reached the way hands do when they remember who they belong to. Somewhere deeper in the trees, something old tried to remember its own voice and found only hers.
By dawn the path was gone. Travelers still swear the forest breathes. They are not wrong. It breathes when she tells it to.

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