It was a morning like any other—or at least, it should have been.
Sunlight filtered through the treetops in golden threads, and the glade shimmered with dew. Birds flitted among the branches, calling to one another with lazy joy. Everything whispered of quiet peace, yet when Eliah opened his eyes, something inside him screamed that something was missing.
He sat up slowly from the woven mat of grass and furs, blinking away the sleep. The air tasted different—emptier. The scent of wild lavender, always clinging faintly to Amara's hair, was gone. So was the warmth beside him.
He turned.
No one.
Her shawl was folded neatly on the moss stone. Her necklace—the one made of leafbone and ribbon—lay atop it.
A cold shiver crawled down his spine.
"Eliah?" came a soft voice.
It was Marell, the oldest of the forest keepers. She was small and gentle-eyed, often seen tending to the youngest saplings. She stood at the edge of the clearing now, worry pinching her brow.
"Where is she?" Eliah asked, his throat dry.
Marell blinked. "Who?"
"Eliah." The voice wasn't Marell's.
It was Sairen, the firekeeper boy.
He came forward slowly, as if unsure how close to come. "You've been asleep for two days. Are you all right?"
"What are you talking about?" Eliah snapped, standing. "Where's Amara?"
Sairen's eyes narrowed. "Who's… Amara?"
Eliah stared at him. "This isn't funny."
Sairen raised both hands. "I swear—I've never heard that name."
Eliah's pulse began to race.
"She was just here. We walked through the fog. We saw Lira. We—" He paused, blinking. "We…"
Memories began slipping like sand through his fingers. He grasped at one, then another—images of eyes like dawnlight, a voice full of moss and firelight. The echo of laughter in a storm. The warmth of a hand against his.
But their outlines grew dimmer.
Faded.
"Amara," he whispered again. "Silver eyes. She had a scar on her wrist. She used to hum when she was nervous."
Marell was quiet now, as if mourning something she, too, couldn't name.
Then softly, she said, "Sometimes… the forest takes things."
Eliah turned to her, eyes wide. "What?"
"When a bond is broken too soon. Or when the magic deems something unfinished. It forgets them. It makes the pain gentler… by removing the memory."
He stumbled back. "No. That's not—she was real. I loved her."
His voice cracked on the last word.
But the wind didn't answer.
The trees didn't whisper her name.
Eliah dropped to his knees, burying his hands into the dirt. He was trying to anchor himself, but it felt like everything beneath him was shifting.
"I don't want to forget," he said.
Marell knelt beside him. "Then remember."
"But I can't. I try and it slips away. Her voice… her face…"
"There is one place," Marell said slowly, "where the forest forgets to forget."
He looked up.
"The Glade of Ashen Bells," she said. "It's dangerous. But if you go there… perhaps you'll find the flicker that remains."
He stood shakily, grabbing his satchel. "Tell me how to get there."
---
It took hours—hours of climbing through tangled branches, slipping down stone paths coated in moss, of ignoring every whisper the woods tried to place in his mind to confuse him.
But finally, the trees grew thin.
And he saw them.
Ashen bells.
A field of pale gray flowers that did not sway with the breeze. They stood still, as if time forgot to pass here. In the center, a tree like no other—charcoal-barked, and bearing no leaves. But when Eliah stepped closer, he saw something glowing faintly on its trunk.
A carved name.
Faint.
Almost gone.
But there.
Amara.
His breath caught.
He ran his fingers over the letters, and suddenly—
It hit him.
Like lightning.
The first time she laughed. The day they danced in the river. The pain in her eyes when she whispered, "Don't leave me." The way she kissed him beneath the firelight tree.
The memories poured back all at once.
He stumbled, chest aching.
And then he heard it.
Her voice.
Singing.
Faint, like it came from underwater.
He turned. The wind moved.
And there—just at the edge of the glade—stood a figure.
Silver eyes. Pale hair. A dress made of woven ivy and light.
"Amara…" he whispered.
But when he stepped forward, she faded like fog.
Gone.
Again.
"No," he said. "Please—don't—"
He dropped to the ground beside the tree and wept. Not like a boy, or a man, but like something ancient and lost.
The ashen bells didn't sway.
But one—just one—bloomed white.