Chapter 1115: Story 1115: Nocturne of the Hollow Woods
The Hollow Woods were always silent during the day.
No birds sang. No insects chirped. Even the wind hesitated among the branches.
But at night, the woods played a song—a haunting, low nocturne—as if the trees themselves rembered sothing unspeakable. It started as a hum deep in the soil, rising with the fog, wrapping itself around those who dared to enter.
Evelyn Blackmoor had heard whispers of it during her travels. Of hunters who followed the song too far and were found months later with hollow eyes and bark growing from their tongues.
She had to know the truth.
The woods t her with silence as dusk fell. No path led in—just roots like coiled serpents and trees bent like mourners. With the lantern tucked away, Evelyn followed the hum that grew louder with every step.
It wasn’t just music. It was mourning.
A lant for the lost.
As the last light of the sun disappeared behind the gnarled canopy, the forest changed. Trees shifted when she wasn’t looking. The hum beca clearer—a voice, deep and lodic, singing in a language that trembled against her bones.
And then… she saw them.
Figures woven from moss and shadow, their heads crowned with twisted antlers. They moved in a slow circle, gliding rather than walking, surrounding a massive stump carved with ancient runes.
Atop it stood a conductor.
Not a man, but sothing older—its body long and lean, skin as dark as peat, antlers blooming with silver leaves. Its hands were branches, waving through the air like a maestro summoning sorrow itself.
Evelyn knelt behind a tree, breath caught in her throat.
She understood, then: this was no cult or gathering.
This was a funeral.
The conductor raised its hands, and the forest shuddered. Roots curled tighter. The moon vanished behind a wall of leaves. And from beneath the great stump ca a faint cry—childlike, gasping.
Sothing buried… still alive.
Evelyn’s instincts scread to run.
Instead, she stepped forward.
“You bury the living?” she asked, voice echoing like a stone dropped in water.
The song stopped.
Every head turned.
The conductor looked at her—not with eyes, but with presence. She felt her na nearly pulled from her mouth.
Then it spoke:
“He wished to forget. We gave him stillness.”
A boy erged from beneath the stump—no older than ten, skin pale and laced with roots. His eyes were closed, but his lips moved.
“I… don’t want to sleep anymore.”
Evelyn stepped closer. “Then wake.”
She opened the lantern.
The cold fla flared.
The shadows recoiled.
The conductor let out a sound not unlike a sigh—ancient and infinite—and the ritual unraveled. The boy gasped, eyes opening. The forest exhaled. The figures faded like mist.
By dawn, the woods were still again.
But Evelyn knew the nocturne would return.
So songs don’t end.
They wait to be heard again.
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