Nia pressed her palm against the Great Hollow’s bark, her voice barely louder than the wind.
“They’re coming tomorrow.”
The ancient tree shivered, its towering form wide as a city gate, roots tangled deep in the bones of the earth. Leaves rustled in reply, and from their midst, a single seed fell—glowing like a tiny moon.
She cupped it in her hands, feeling its warmth, its quiet power.
Without hesitation, she knelt and pressed it into the soil.
By dawn, the sapling had pierced the sky. Its trunk pulsed with silver light, stretching higher, taller, until it stood beside the Great Hollow—another moon born from the earth.
Then came the rumble of engines.
The corporate team arrived, steel-toed boots splashing through the morning mist. Chainsaws growled, their hunger sharp and eager. The foreman barely glanced at the trees before jabbing a gloved hand forward.
“Cut that one first.”
The Great Hollow.
Nia’s breath hitched. She threw herself against the bark, fingers digging into the rough surface.
“Take me instead.”
A silence deeper than the forest fell.
Then, the roots surged.
They erupted from the ground, twisting like serpents. They coiled around her ankles, her arms, her chest—pulling her close, wrapping her in their embrace. Her skin tingled, then melted, dissolving into amber-gold sap.
The tree roared.
Its branches snapped chainsaws like twigs. The earth cracked, swallowing boots and metal alike. The foreman’s scream was the last sound before silence reclaimed the woods.
Years passed.
Hikers whispered of a tree with a woman’s face carved in its knots. Her eyes, closed in quiet peace.
The fruit it bore was unlike any other—sweet as honey, warm as the sun. Those who dared to taste it saw visions.
They saw her.
Nia, laughing in a forest where machines had rusted to dust. Where the wind carried only birdsong.
Above them, the second moon still glowed.
But only for those who listened.