Story 1159: The Glade of Lost Names

Deep within the Moonwood, past the fog-thick marshes and the grove where birds forget their songs, there is a place untouched by time. No maps show its path. No creature claims it. It is called the Glade of Lost Names—where those who no longer remember who they are come to disappear.

The trees there do not whisper. They listen.

Thom Weller arrived at dusk.

His boots were torn, and his mind frayed at the edges. He had wandered the forest for days—searching for something, though he couldn't say what. He had a name once. A family. Maybe.

But now, he only had a piece of parchment, clutched tightly in his hand. Its edges were torn and weathered, its words faded. All that remained was a name: I remember... and nothing else.

The glade was a quiet clearing, surrounded by towering silverwoods that pulsed with a ghostly glow. Mist coiled low to the ground, and the air tasted of forgotten prayers.