What the Forest Left Behind

Three weeks after the Hollow's silence, Black Hollow felt... wrong.

The fog had lifted. Birds returned. The trees, once twisted and gnarled with blackened roots, now grew straight and green. Children played in the streets again. For the first time in decades, sunlight reached the town square.

But beneath the relief, an unease crept.

It started with the soil.

Farmers reported crops growing too fast—overnight blooms, strange colors, and a honey-thick sap that glowed under moonlight. One woman found her garden weeping. Real tears. Clear as glass.

Then came the echoes.

People heard whispers from the woods, even in daylight. Some said it was the wind. Others insisted they heard a child singing—a lullaby in a language no one remembered teaching.

Hazel hadn't spoken since the ritual.

She stayed in her room, sketching sigils and root-knots on every surface she could find. Her hands bled ink and ash. Evelyn brought her food. Silas stood guard outside. No one entered without permission.

The black seed had been buried.

But Hazel whispered to it.

And it listened.

---

In the middle of the night, Evelyn found Hazel in the backyard—barefoot, standing in the wet grass, her palms pressed against the soil.

"What are you doing?" Evelyn asked softly.

Hazel didn't turn. "It's not over."

Evelyn's stomach dropped. "We ended it, Hazel. The curse is broken."

Hazel finally looked up. Her eyes were different now. Older. Deeper.

"No," she said. "The Hollow was never the curse. It was the prison."

She stepped back.

Where she had touched the earth, a vine had begun to grow—dark green, thorned, and coiled like a serpent.

It pulsed with a heartbeat.

---

In the distance, at the edge of the forest, a new tree had appeared.

Twisted. Ancient. Alive.

From its bark dripped black sap—and in its trunk was a single hollow, shaped like a mouth.

Smiling.