The forest greeted them with an unnatural stillness.
From above, Madagascar's rainforests looked lush and vibrant, alive with the endless chatter of birds, insects, and wind through the canopy. But as Sofia stepped beyond the tree line of the eastern highlands, everything fell silent. No birds. No rustle. Not even the crunch of her boots seemed willing to disturb the air.
Felix had called it beautiful. Aiden had called it wrong.
But this was Sofia's test.
The beacon here wasn't buried in ice or mountains. It was alive. Rooted in the soil of the oldest grove in the world, fed by millennia of decay, rebirth, and memory. The Singing Forest got its name from stories of whispers heard at dusk—tones carried on leaves, notes in rustling fronds, a lullaby no one remembered learning.
She moved alone, following the frequency embedded in the shard, her boots sinking into moss and ancient loam. The shard pulsed, guiding her with a rhythm like a song only she could hear.
Each note stirred a memory.
Her mother's hands. Her brother's laugh. The last time she saw her father before the Whisperers took her. The forest wanted her to remember.
And it wanted her to feel.
On the second day, the hallucinations began.
A child weeping among roots. A boy in her father's old military uniform calling her name. Trees bent toward her, their bark etched with faces of those she'd failed. Villagers she couldn't save. Friends lost in missions she couldn't finish.
She kept walking.
The deeper she went, the louder the forest grew. Not with sound, but presence. The entire ecosystem resonated, as if watching, waiting.
When she found the grove, it wasn't silent anymore.
The trees hummed.
A circular clearing opened before her. At its center stood a vast baobab, impossibly old, its trunk split like a mouth in mid-song. Roots twisted in patterns that resonated with the shard.
Sofia stepped forward, and the world dissolved.
She stood in a house of glass.
Rain fell endlessly on its roof. Inside, a woman sat at a piano, playing a melody Sofia knew—but couldn't name. Her mother. Alive. Unchanged. Smiling.
"Stay," the woman said. "You've done enough."
The music wrapped around her. Peace, forgiveness, warmth.
But it wasn't real.
"You're not her," Sofia said.
The music faltered.
The figure rose. Her eyes bled stars.
"Then show us who you are," the voice said.
The forest tested her resolve, her guilt, her love. It showed her futures where she ran away, where she stayed hidden, let others suffer so she could survive. Visions where she let Aiden die. Where she joined the Whisperers, guided ships toward cities, whispered lies into children's ears.
She saw all of them.
And she chose none.
"I am not your echo," she said, raising the shard. "I am the one who listens."
She placed the shard at the baobab's base. Light climbed the tree, branched into the forest, and for the first time, the trees truly sang.
Not whispers. Voices.
Voices of resistance. Of sorrow. Of hope.
Sofia returned to the others with dirt-streaked hands and tear-streaked cheeks. She didn't speak for a long time. Only when Aiden offered her a flask of water did she murmur:
"The forest remembers us. We have to remember it too."
Aiden nodded. "Then we keep going."
Two beacons awakened. Three remained.