The Forest

It had been days, maybe weeks, since the land had begun to change. Time had lost all meaning as the world around me transformed, but I knew one thing for certain—Imelda was gone. Her sacrifice had birthed the green, and now that green spread like a living dream. But even in the midst of this awe-inspiring renewal, I felt her absence like a shadow, lurking at the edges of my thoughts.

Then, one morning, I stumbled upon a place unlike any I had ever seen before. The air here felt different—thicker, alive with something that whispered her name. It was as though the very ground had remembered her, and it had given rise to something new.

A forest that seemed to stretch forever in either direction. But not just any forest. This one pulsed with a strange, ancient power. The trees stood tall and strong, their trunks thick with age and wisdom. The leaves shimmered with a silvery glow, reflecting the light of a sun that seemed to shine with a gentler, kinder radiance. The air smelled of fresh pine, of moss, of life untainted by the scars of the old world.

I walked alongside it, almost reverent, my footsteps soft on the thick carpet of moss. The forest was silent, yet it spoke in ways I could not quite understand. It was as if the trees were listening, watching, knowing. It was after what seemed an eternity, I realized I had walked full circle.  The forest was a wall, a boundary, a fortress.

I stepped tentatively through the gnarled bark, amazed by how I seemed to be able to walk almost unhindered when before it looked as though the route was nigh on impassable.  In what seemed both an instant and an eternity I was through the other side.  The derelict wasteland stretched out before me.  I turned back to look where I’d emerged from the forest and again, the trees and undergrowth seemed almost completely impenetrable.

I wasn’t alone, other wasteland rogues had arrived, either attracted by the explosion of life or the promise of plunder. But this was no place for just anyone. The forest didn’t allow it. Those who came with greed or malice in their hearts turned back, unable to take a single step further. The thorns grew thicker, the path became more tangled, and the trees seemed to close ranks around them, pushing them away.  Attempts to cut away at tendrils and branches were futile as more growth appeared almost instantaneously.

I, too, had feared that this place might reject me, but I pressed on back.  I headed back to the tree that stood where I was sure I had just previously walked unfettered.

I approached it slowly, my hand trembling as I placed it on the bark. The moment I touched it, I felt something surge through me—a warmth, a connection, as if the tree itself was sapient, aware of my presence. And in that moment, I understood.

Imelda had given everything to this world, but she had also left behind something—something more than just life. She had left a sanctuary, a place where those pure of heart could find peace and healing. The forest was her final gift to us—a sanctuary of hope, a place where the scars of the past could fade into the embrace of nature, where the lost could find their way again.

Her voice echoed softly in my mind; a whisper carried on the wind. “Go on, my friend. The world is new. You’ll find your way inside.”

And so, I stood, beneath the canopy of this forest, knowing that while Imelda’s body was gone, her spirit lived on. The forest was her legacy, a place where those who had suffered could find solace, where the wounded could heal, and where the future, no longer bound by the chains of the past, could begin again.

I walked deeper into the forest, knowing that whatever came next, it was here I would find the answers. And with each step, I felt a little closer to the future she had promised, to the peace that had always eluded us in the old world. This forest—Imelda’s Forest—was now my home, too.

No man had seen a sight like this since time began to turn,
A wildwood standing proud and vast where only death had burned.
The roots grew thick, the rivers pure, the sky a softer hue,
And in the air, her whisper sang, beneath the drops of dew.

Yet not all souls could cross its paths, for the trees could sense a heart,
And those who sought with hands of greed found no way to depart.
The brambles closed, the earth stood firm, no passage to be found,
While those with love, with hope, with peace, could walk upon its ground.

For hers was not a wall of stone, nor chains that rust and break,
But justice in the way the trees would bend or would not wake.
A sanctuary, born from loss, a place where hearts may heal,
A forest raised by sacrifice, yet never touched by steel.

Lazarus placed his hand against the bark, the trees they seemed to sigh,
And in their rustling, he could hear her voice say one last time—

“Go on, my friend. The world is new. You’ll find your way inside.”