THE HANGING TREE
A tree stands alone on the edge of a cliff where the mist-draped forest end, towering over the land like a quiet sentinel, tall sloping, and half bent from centuries of wind.
Its silver-green leaves cascading like waterfalls of light, hung like veil between this world and something older, swaying even when the air is still. Its bark shimmered pale and silver, as if it's made from moonlight and ash. Every root clung to rock as if it to memory. The elders warned children not to look at it for too long.
They said it was where the forest god watched. Not with mercy, but with silence.
They call him Kiharu.
Though even the name faded from most mouths, worn down to a whisper used only when the wind is cruel or when the rains failed to drop.
Long ago, the villagers lived not beside the forest but within it, there were shrines hidden in the roots of old trees, and footpaths with stone offerings, guided by signs, shadows, and by seasons the gods controlled.
Among them was Kiharu, the quietest among the old spirits. He did not ask for sacrifices. He did not curse blight nor flood the fields. He was a guardian of stillness, of soft rains and gentle sun.
Elderly people claims that he once touched the leaves of trees to help them bloom. Children play under his tree and left wildflowers at its roots. His name was spoken in springtime like a prayer for peace.
But gods are only gods when they are remembered. And memory is a fragile thing.
The forest changed.
Men felled trees they once worshipped. Built homes from the trunk of the sacred grove. Destructive paths made through his domain. The streams grew cloudy as the men grew greedy. The old songs faded into merely an echo.
One by one, the trees in the sacred grove fell silent.
Kiharu did not rage. He simply... retreated.
A thick air emerged around the sacred forest, not with just mist but with something unseen. A pressure that hums beneath the surface, like atmosphere itself resist intrusion. It's not merely heavy; it's repelling.
As if the forest god has drawn a line. A quiet and invisible barrier meant to keep the mortals from wondering too close to his domain.
Even the bravest of hunters and curious children find their feet slowing near the forest, their instincts whispering enough. Not out of fear but reverence.
As though the land itself honors his boundary.
They do not cross it.
Because the forest does not welcome.
It warns.
There at the cliff edge, he rooted himself. Not in the bark or the leaf, but beneath it. In earth, in the stone, in between the wind's breath. He became still. He became myth. He became forgotten.
Centuries passed like fog.
The god no longer reached for the sun. No longer guided deer. No longer stirred rains.
"If the world no longer remembers me", he thought, "then I will become what it remembers last."
A god of silence. A ghost of the grove.
And so, he slept, beneath the hanging tree, as the world moved on.
As the sun begins to rise, a morning like any other in a quiet age. Strangely there was faint sound of music.
Not from drums. Not from strings.
But from movement.
A girl was dancing.
She moved beneath the scared tree like the wind was hers to command. Her bare feet brushing the grass. Sleeves catching the air. Her hair lit like morning light.
No offerings.
No rituals.
No prayer.
Her hair was long, dark as bark, loose and wild as it danced gracefully with the wind. Her eyes, tired soft brownish gold orbs, like late autumn sunlight bleeding through the leaves. She wore an old hanfu, weathered but elegant, its layered fabric shifting gracefully like a stream as she turned.
A girl from nowhere, dressed like a memory.
Out of place, and yet ... meant to be there.
She didn't know she wasn't supposed to be. Didn't know no one has stepped beneath the tree for generations. Didn't know the silence wasn't just sacred. It was sealed.
Or maybe she did.
And danced anyway.
Kiharu. Buried in stillness beneath the roots of his tree felt it.
A sudden pull.
Not to the girl. Not to the dance. But to the rupture in the silence. The breath in the stillness. Like a stone cast into a still pond. He had forgotten what it meant to feel. To listen. To want.
But she came back.
The next morning.
And the next.
And with every dance, the veil thinned. The stillness trembled. And the god beneath the tree began to awaken.
But the girl hadn't come to awaken anything. She was only unburdening.
And each time, she danced a little closer to the cliff's edge. Where the tree clung to the rock, where the forest ended and the sky began.
She never spoke. Only moved. Until the wind swallowed her silhouette.
A storm of aching grace beneath ancient branches. Emptying herself with every move. The girl wasn't dancing to live. She was dancing to say goodbye.
The time finally came. Her last dance and final goodbye. She stepped past the roots. Past the edge. And let herself fall.
The god who watches in silence moved for the first time. The winds shifted, the roots stirred. And before her body could break against the rocks below, the air bent around her like a cradle. The forest caught her.
Gently. Quietly. As if the god feared the sound of her fragile body shattering.
The girl did not die. But the pain, the weight she had carried, had already pulled her under. Her eyes closed, her breath slowed. And in the arms of an old forgotten god.
She went still.
Unconscious.
Unaware.
Alive.
And the forest, which had only known silence for a long time held its breath.
Author's Note:
Hi! Thank you so much for reading the first chapter of Prayers of the Weeping Forest.
This is actually my first time writing a book, and I'm honestly nervous but really excited. I've been carrying this story in my head for a while, and finally putting it into words feels surreal.
I'm committed to finishing this, and I genuinely hope people enjoy it. Whether you're here for the story, the characters, or just curious about what happens next — thank you for giving it a chance.
It means more than you know
— aldeleigh
