The forest always whispered at night.
Elior lay awake in his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling as the wind pushed through the trees outside. Their branches creaked like old bones, and the shadows swayed against the windowpane, restless and alive. Most boys in the village feared the sound of the woods, but Elior had grown used to it. In some strange way, the whispers reminded him of voices he could almost remember—soft, faint, like someone calling him from far away.
He closed his eyes and tried to picture them. Faces. Names. A hand reaching for his. But the harder he tried, the quicker the memory dissolved, slipping from his grasp like smoke in the wind.
A sigh escaped him.
The door creaked, and his uncle's silhouette filled the frame, lantern in hand. His face, sharp and lined, was half-hidden in the glow.
"You're awake again," his uncle said, his voice low and firm. "The forest won't harm you, Elior. Go back to sleep."
Elior pushed himself up on his elbows. "I wasn't afraid." His voice cracked, betraying the lie.
The man stepped closer, setting the lantern on the wooden table by the wall. His uncle was tall, broad-shouldered, with gray threading through his dark hair. His hands, scarred and rough, spoke of years of labor and battles unspoken. He studied Elior for a moment, then gave a curt nod.
"Try to rest. Tomorrow will be long."
Elior wanted to ask why. Why did the forest whisper? Why did his uncle's eyes always look so heavy when he caught Elior staring too long? Why did his life feel like it began halfway through a story? But every time he asked, the answers never came. Only silence. Only that same phrase: Some truths are too heavy for you.
As his uncle left, closing the door behind him, Elior whispered into the dark, "Then why do I feel them calling me?"
---
Morning came with the sound of crows and the weight of another school day.
The village was small, tucked between the forest and the hills. Its houses were simple—stone walls, timber frames, and thatched roofs leaning against each other as though sharing burdens. Children gathered near the well, laughing and shouting as they prepared for the day's lessons. Elior walked among them, quiet, his satchel hanging low against his side.
It didn't take long.
"Look, it's the ghost-boy!" one of the boys sneered, shoving his shoulder as he passed.
"Careful," another said with mock terror. "Don't touch him too long. His parents disappeared because he's cursed."
Laughter followed. The kind that wasn't light but sharp, meant to cut.
Elior clenched his fists but said nothing. He had learned long ago that words did nothing but feed the fire. Still, each insult sank deep, settling in the hollow space where his past should have been.
"You don't have to listen to them."
Elior turned. Kael was waiting at the schoolhouse door, leaning casually against the frame. His sandy hair was messy as always, his grin lopsided but warm. He tossed Elior an apple. "Eat. You look like you didn't sleep again."
Elior caught it with a small smile. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me," Kael said with mock seriousness. "Thank the apple tree. I risked my life climbing it for you."
Despite himself, Elior laughed. That was Kael's gift—turning pain into something lighter, something bearable.
Inside, Liora was already seated by the window, her braid glinting like spun gold in the sunlight. She looked up as Elior entered, her smile soft and knowing. "Rough morning?"
"The usual," Elior murmured, sliding into the seat beside her.
Her hand brushed his under the table, gentle, reassuring. "They don't know you. Don't let their words define you."
But wasn't that the problem? Elior thought bitterly. How can I stop them from defining me when I don't even know who I am?
---
That night, he sat by the fire while his uncle sharpened a blade at the table. The sound of steel against stone filled the silence. Elior stared at the flames, the words heavy on his tongue until he finally spoke.
"Uncle… tell me about my parents."
The blade paused. His uncle's hands stilled, but he didn't look up.
"You've asked before," he said quietly.
"And you've never answered," Elior pressed, his voice trembling now. "I'm old enough. I deserve to know."
His uncle lifted his gaze at last, eyes hard as flint. "You think you're ready, Elior, but you're not. Some truths are heavier than death. And if you carry them too soon, they will break you."
Elior's chest tightened. "Then why do I dream about them? Why do I hear them calling me in the forest? You can't keep hiding everything!"
The older man's jaw clenched. For a moment, Elior thought he saw something—grief, maybe, or regret—flash across his face. But then it was gone. His uncle stood, sliding the blade back into its sheath.
"Go to bed," he said, his voice final.
The door closed behind him, leaving Elior alone with the fire. Alone with questions that burned hotter than the flames.
He stared into the embers until his eyes blurred, until he could almost see faces forming in the smoke—faces he couldn't name but felt he should.
And in that moment, Elior swore one thing to himself:
If his uncle would not give him the truth, he would find it on his own.
Even if it meant stepping into the very whispers that haunted him.