Entry Eleven: The Gathering Hollow

 I did not mean to find the hollow. It was not on the map I never carry, nor in the stories I was warned to forget. And yet, as I walked, the forest shifted—not suddenly, but like a long breath held too long. The air folded in, quieting birdsong and breeze alike.

The hollow sat low in the earth, a perfect circle rimmed with stones no moss would grow on. Trees bent back from it, their roots exposed like fingers recoiling from heat. The grass within was colorless, faded like paper left to the sun too long. I stepped into it, and sound left me.

There are places where the forest sings, where its song weaves through the trees like a forgotten hymn. Then, there are places where the forest remembers ancient echoes, its roots holding stories lost to time. But this place did neither. It was not a melody or a memory, but a silent guardian of forgotten woods, a place untouched by song and untouched by time. It stood as a threshold, untouched by the rhythms of life, a forgotten corner of the forest where no stories dared to be told.

Scattered across the hollow were remnants—offerings or warnings, I couldn't tell. A bundle of thorn branches bound in red thread. A feather, bleached white and unmoving. Spirals of moss that refused to grow beyond their bounds. And in the center, a stone etched with symbols too old to name, humming low enough to rattle my bones. For more on ancient symbols and forgotten rites, visit the Forgotten Grimoire.

The light dimmed though no clouds passed. The wind twisted back on itself, carrying old scents—burnt wood, damp soil, a child's laughter with no child. And then I saw it: a figure near the edge, cloaked in bark and ash, its face hidden behind a veil of lichen. It did not move. It only watched.

They say the forest forms the Gathering Hollow only when it must decide. Between silence and flame. Between what is kept, and what must be forgotten. I had not come seeking answers, but still I knelt. I placed a small object in the center—an iron ring I had carried for years without knowing why. The hum shifted.

I left the hollow walking backward. The figure remained. And as I passed the last of the root-rimmed stones, I heard my voice echo back at me—not in repetition, but in question.

Keywords

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