The rumors crawled through the village faster than the dawn mist: wolves snapping at chicken coops, deer with eyes like old men, and — worst of all — the children who said the trees were whispering again.
Rafi heard it first from a gaunt old hunter named Doven, who cornered him by the communal well. Doven smelled of oilskin and boiled potatoes, and his single eye darted between the forest and Rafi's face as if measuring which one deserved the bullet more.
"You been pokin' near that black stump again, boy?" the old man rasped. His finger jabbed Rafi's chest like a dull blade. "Them critters gone sideways. My hounds won't hunt. My niece won't sleep. Says the branches knock on her shutter at night."
Rafi forced a laugh, though it stuck in his throat like a bone. "Old trees creak, Doven. Maybe your niece needs less stew before bed."
Doven leaned closer. His breath soured the air. "I seen you and that girl skulkin'. Burnt roots don't stay dead if fools feed 'em prayers."
Rafi stepped back so fast his heel skidded in the mud. He wanted to shout that he hated the hush more than anyone — that every nightmare still tasted of soot and moss — but lies came easier. So he shrugged, mumbled something about chores, and fled.
By the time he reached the edge of the huts, two children with snot-slicked noses were waiting for him. They tracked him with the wide, hungry gaze he knew too well. Orphans. Like he'd been once, before the hush carved him into something half-wild.
One girl piped up, voice shrill as a snapped twig:
"Mama says you talk to the tree."
Rafi crouched low. "Your mama's wrong."
She giggled, showing gaps where her baby teeth should be. "The tree talks back."
Rafi stood so quickly she stumbled backward. Behind him, the braid girl watched from the shade of a half-fallen barn. Her braid had loosened again — strands tangled with bits of leaf. She didn't blink when the children stared at her. She never blinked much at all.
Rafi's gut soured. He'd promised himself he'd keep her safe. But the hush had a longer memory than either of them.
That night, the whispers found him too. In the dry rasp of the wind under the eaves, in the shifting shadow behind the braid girl's sleeping back.
Come home, it sighed.
Roots never forget.