It's Still Life

The Whisperoak

Louisa had always been drawn to the old tree in front of the house. Its roots curled into the stone walls, its gnarled branches scraped the sky, and its massive trunk was hollowed into a darkened passage. Her grandmother said that it was ancient even when she was young and that those who stepped inside the passage were never the same.

One night, Louisa dreamt that she climbed over the roots and into the tree’s gaping mouth. The air inside was thick with the scent of petrichor and something… ancient. She stepped forward. The heart of the tree pulsed with sunlight.

“Louisa,” a familiar voice murmured—it sounded like rustling leaves in the wind.

She turned, heart pounding, and saw her grandmother emerge from the bark. She was ethereal, her hair tangled with ivy, her eyes dark as the deepest night.

“You are here at last,” her grandmother whispered. “The guardian’s blood flows in you, my girl.”

And before Louisa could question it, warmth flooded into her. The tree’s roots twined around her ankles—not trapping her, but connecting. She understood now. She belonged to the tree, as it belonged to her.

And when she woke in the morning, the village, her house, her bedroom—everything—seemed smaller, and the trees whispered secrets only she could hear.

She had become part of the magic.