What did stories mean to me, before it happened?
They were playgrounds of my own making—worlds I could shape without consequence, where every wrong turn ended in revelation, and every hero's courage eclipsed my own. Back then, I believed in magic the way a child believes in sunlight: unquestionably, endlessly.
---
That room—drenched in gold where the curtain let the light bleed through—once held five hearts. Me, my siblings, Mom, and Dad.
Mom's voice still lingers. A humming thread of heaven weaving through the morning bustle. My father, never quite awake, tending to my younger siblings while I sat cross-legged by the window, scribbling out stories as fast as my hands could shape them.
"Mom! Check out this tree! It guides people who are lost, and even feeds them fruits!"
Pride swelled in my chest like a balloon.
"And what do you call it?" she asked, leaning down, eyes kind.
"I dunno… why don't you name it, Mom?"
A pause.
Then she smiled. "Why don't you call it... Evertree?"
And just like that, it had a name.
---
The forest shimmered with the pulse of remembered wonder. Every leaf whispered fragments of stories long abandoned, and the earth beneath my feet breathed like something alive. Sunlight trickled through the boughs above, pooling in quiet puddles on the mossy floor.
Then I saw it—my reflection, bent in the water's surface.
Still me. Still Ren. But now... ears tapered into a fine point, eyes carrying the gleam of old magic. An elf. My mother's suggestion. "They're the most graceful," she had said once, brushing my hair from my forehead. "I think you'd make a wonderful one."
And I... I believed her.
Now I stood in a world pulled from faded notebook margins, every stone and petal birthed from the imaginations of a child who still thought magic could fix things. A child who hadn't yet watched everything unravel.
I stepped forward, letting my fingers trail along the bark of a tree. Once, this grove had been a place of sanctuary—a setting for joy, discovery, friendship.
But now... something had shifted.
Ah, I remember.
Once-peaceful stories I had lovingly crafted now lay twisted, corrupted—unfinished and bleeding into shadow. Especially this one. I used to hate it. Maybe... maybe if this story had never existed, my mother would still be singing lullabies in that sunlit room.
That was my resolve back then. In a childish burst of grief and rage, I rewrote everything. I turned brightness into gloom, joy into fury. Because if stories couldn't bring her back... then they didn't deserve to be beautiful.
Mom wouldn't have wanted that.
It was too late before I realized—I had destroyed the last of my good memories.
To think that I would regret my decision twice.
The breeze shifted. Soft at first, then surging into a gale. Trees trembled. Shadows deepened. The once-lush green canopy bled into a bruised violet, like the world itself was grieving.
Cracks spidered across the earth.
Right... this is how I changed it. Not a guardian gently emerging from the roots. No, I made it shatter the ground it once nurtured.
I should really scold my old self.
And then it came.
Not the Evertree I remembered—but the Dryad of the Dead. Once a gentle spirit, now a grotesque thing: limbs gnarled like broken ribs, its bark scorched and split. A single ember-glow eye burned in its warped face.
The emerald gaze of safety and guidance... gone.
There was no time to think.
Instinct howled louder than reason. I turned and ran, crashing through thorns and branches that clawed at my arms. Behind me, the sound of splintering wood and snarling bark. The creature moved on legs now—massive, twisted things that shook the forest with every step.
Think, Ren. You wrote this. You know how it moves.
I threw out my hand. Magic surged—jagged, unfocused. A gust of wind howled from my palm, wild and unrefined, slamming into the Dryad just enough to stagger it.
Move!
I hurled myself through a bramble thicket, rolling down a muddy slope into a freezing creek. My lungs burned, my legs barely obeyed. The Dryad's howl shook the treetops.
"Down!"
A voice cut through the chaos. A hand gripped my collar, dragging me behind a mossy boulder.
A moment later, light bloomed—real fire, not conjured. A torch arced through the air, striking the creature squarely. Flames licked at its face. It recoiled, hissing in rage, but it gave us enough time.
"Run!"
The stranger pulled me up, and we tore through the trees together, dodging roots and snapping branches. Only once the howls faded behind us did we stop, panting hard.
He looked like he'd wrestled with the forest itself. Leathery armor, worn but serviceable. A jagged scar beneath his jaw. Dark hair, a tangle of leaf and sweat.
"Name's Miren," he said between breaths. "Thought I was the only one out here."
"Ren," I rasped.
He grinned faintly. "Then you're luckier than you look. Let's move."
---
We stopped when dusk painted the trees with molten gold. Miren lit a fire, and the woods flickered with orange shadows.
I chewed on roasted roots. My hands still trembled.
After a while, he spoke. "Was supposed to clear out a cellar of plague-rats today. Thought it'd be easy."
He chuckled darkly. "Ran instead. Thought I'd find something out here worth proving. Something heroic."
I looked at him. "And did you?"
He shrugged. "Saved a stranger from a walking nightmare. Maybe that counts."
He glanced at the fire. "My brother... he was in the guard. Died holding off bandits so we could run. I was there. Froze up. Couldn't move. Never forgave myself."
His eyes didn't meet mine. "I just wanted to be someone worth remembering."
I stared into the fire. "Do you ever try to be a hero, Ren?"
The words hit harder than he intended.
"I'm sorry. I tried to be the hero you needed… but I couldn't even save your mother."
I closed my eyes. "I… write about them."
Miren smiled. Sad. Understanding. "Maybe one day you'll live it too."
Maybe my father could've been one, if things had been different.
---
Night crept in like ink poured through the branches. The warmth of the fire could not chase away the chill now settling deep in my bones.
"We leave at dawn," Miren murmured, curling into his cloak.
I leaned against the roots of an old oak, the stars barely visible through the canopy.
We shouldn't sleep.
But exhaustion whispered lullabies. My limbs sagged, my eyelids fell heavy.
"Good night," I whispered, unsure if he heard me.
The last thing I remember was the fire dying slowly... and the woods listening.
Maybe I really am just a reader.