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It was not the kind of answer that satisfied Lina. And it was not the kind that children forget.
The Fir Tree
Deep in the forest stood an enormous fir tree—older than any living villager could remember. Its trunk was wide enough that three people holding hands could not encircle it. Its branches stretched outward like protective arms, dense and shadowed.
The girls had been warned never to go near it.
“Some places,” Elara told them, “are not meant for us.”
But warnings have a way of planting curiosity. And curiosity, in children, grows faster than fear.
One afternoon, when Elara was busy repairing the roof before the coming rains, Lina and Maris slipped away into the woods.
They followed the narrow trail that deer often used, stepping carefully over roots and fallen branches. The forest seemed quieter the deeper they went, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
And then they saw it.
The fir tree.
“It’s beautiful,” Maris whispered.
Lina nodded, though she felt something else too—a strange pull, as if the tree were watching them.
At its base was a hollow, large enough for someone to crawl inside. The opening was dark, but not completely black. Faint light filtered through cracks in the wood, creating shifting patterns inside.
“Do you think this is why Mother warned us?” Maris asked.
“Maybe,” Lina said. “Or maybe she’s just afraid.”
Before Lina could stop her, Maris stepped closer.
“Wait,” Lina said sharply. “We should go back.”
But Maris was already kneeling by the hollow, peering inside.
“It’s not scary,” she said. “It’s… warm.”
Warm.
That was not what Lina expected. Slowly, cautiously, she approached as well.
And she felt it too.
Not heat, exactly—but a kind of quiet comfort, like being wrapped in a blanket on a cold night.
“We shouldn’t be here,” Lina said, though her voice lacked conviction.
“Just for a moment,” Maris replied.
And that moment would change everything.