Pines

Chapter-1: THE TREE OF BLIGHT

In a forest filled with pines and fogs spreading vast, all the eyes could see was just a sea of pines stretching straight up to the clouds. A man in his early 30s stands on the small path that leads deeper into the forest. He looks around. Seeing no other way, he walks in—without a clue why he is there or how he got there. He walks along the foggy pine forest path, thinking to himself, "Maybe I too can be able to," as he moves further in.

After a while, he reaches a clearing—an open zone, less foggy than the rest of the jungle. He doesn’t know why, but he feels this subtle calmness in his heart—and dread. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what he felt. He walks to the middle of the field and sits down in a warm patch of grass.

Then he notices a tree—deep within this vast pine forest, a tree that isn’t pine. What it is, he can’t tell. Its branch feels like it reaches the heavens, and its roots like they pierce into the lowest depths of hell. He sits in its shade and closes his eyes.

---

A few hours later...

He wakes up to a whisper.

It’s not a word.

It’s not an animal.

It’s a giggle—pure, unadulterated innocence poured into a laugh.

He grabs his heart. He feels a warmth so immense his whole body starts trembling and heating. His skin begins changing colours like a chameleon—hiding from predators, or in this case, trying to show itself to one.

"What is this madness?" he thinks to himself.

Getting up, he looks at the tree. The cracks on its bark have formed a grin.

"That wasn't there before," he says aloud.

Another giggle—this time right in his ear. He turns, fast—but no one is there.

"WHO IS OUT THERE? SHOW YOURSELF! WHAT IS THIS TOMFOOLERY? YOU SHOULD KNOW I CAN DEFEND MYSELF RATHER NICELY!!!???" he shouts, voice echoing across the clearing.

But nobody appears.

Questioning his sanity, he turns away from the tree and begins to pace. Then, he hears a gruff old voice behind him:

"Thou walkest around my home quite comfortably"

He spins around—and much to his shock, it’s the tree speaking.

"Human, I know what thou seekest, for thou hast been lost in these woods for years. I have sensed thee; I knew thou wouldst reach here sooner or later. Thy journey hath been most memorable for us woodland creatures."

The man takes a few steps back, almost as if he might bolt at the first chance. His voice trembling, he starts to ask something, but the tree interrupts, voice deep with loathing:

"Hohohoho—thou dost amuse me, puny mortal. Thou hast lingered here for quite some time; I could sense thee from afar, limping and fleeing from the darkness of the woodland—frightened as a rabbit beneath the shadow of a fox. I found thy terror rather entertaining.

Thou askest who I am? It is I who doth foresee the woodlands. Every leaf that falleth into the cold, muddied puddle upon the forest floor doth seek my leave before it dares descend. And yet thou—thou who trespasseth in mine abode and runnest amok like a naked boar for ages—darest ask who I am? Foolish soul."

He speaks with such disgust that it turns the air sour.

The man knew—he had been here before. But he didn’t know what this place was. And the memory loss did him no favours. He wanted answers. But all he got was a towering, cynical tree shouting in Shakespearean fury.

He lost his temper.

“LISTEN HERE, YOU BIG FIREWOOD! I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR NONSENSE! I WANT ANSWERS! TELL ME WH—”

Before he could finish, the tree blew.

With nothing more than a deep exhale from its monstrous mouth, the tree sent him flying—air roaring around him, the world fracturing into fragments it felt he flew for days and nights with no ends

It wasn’t like falling.

It was like being torn from time.

He soared through space, light, and shadow—flashing through broken memories, half-formed thoughts, distant echoes of voices he didn’t know if he had ever heard.

At first, it felt alive.

Then—he felt dead.

Dread crept in. The warmth drained. His mouth went dry. Cold sweat poured off his skin. He was shivering. Falling. For what felt like eternity.

Then—impact.

He hit solid ground.

It was wet. He could feel patches of grass slick with dew, and cold soil beneath him that felt like it had been disturbed—as though something had been buried and unburied many times.

He rose slowly and looked around.

At first, he couldn’t quite place what it was.

Then he saw.

It was a graveyard.

Chapter-1 (The End)

Chapter 2: SOULS' SANITARIUM

The man stands still, feeling eerie—like something is clawing at the back of his mind with fingers made of rusty nails. Disoriented and confused, he tightens his coat and walks toward the sanctuary. The cold dew on the grass brushes against his pants.

But when he looks down, he realizes—it’s not dew.

It looks like blood, thick and dark, mixed with rust. Even the drops of rain falling from the sky… they aren’t clear. They’re like the rest—tainted, like rusted metal weeping red. Nauseated, he stumbles forward, frantic, toward the gate.

That’s when he sees them.

Open graves.

Hands reaching out.

Bones used as signposts.

This isn't your run-of-the-mill graveyard.

This was something time itself forgot.

He pushes forward.

The graveyard isn’t small—it stretches outward, vast like a village of the dead, abandoned yet somehow still alive.

Something watches.

Something waits.

Walking this hellscape, he stumbles and tumbles down a few hedges. Grabbing his head, he looks ahead—it's a grave. Nameless, yet he felt he knew exactly who it was.

The name was etched out, but something else was written on it.

It read: "Loving Father and Son."

As soon as he read it, he started breaking apart. Crying. Sobbing. Tears blocking his vision. He grabs himself, crying like he missed his own funeral—

and he knew he did.

He starts remembering.

Shards and pieces.

But he started remembering.

He feels something in his pocket—something small.

He pokes his hand in, and after reaching around for a while, he stops.

He pulls out something.

A little kid’s watch.

Stopped.

No straps.

Just the head of the watch.

He clenches it in his fist and stands up.

Looks at the grave one last time.

And leaves.

After clawing his way back to the path, he continues his journey.

He doesn’t know where this is.

He doesn’t know who he was.

But he sure knows that he is damned.

As he goes on, he sees someone—

Kneeling before an empty grave.

The grave is smaller.

Significantly smaller.

Quite hesitant, he walks toward her.

"M-Miss...? Are you alright?"

The girl—dressed in rags that resemble a patient's clothes—turns around slowly.

Pale.

Fuzzy hair.

An eerie smile.

In a voice so soft it’s almost a whisper, she says:

"Did... you call me... Mister?"

He swallows.

"Are you okay, ma'am?"

She nods, her smile growing wider.

"Quite fine. Thank you for asking... I-I’m here waiting for her to fall in this hole I dug."

The man freezes.

"...Who are you waiting for?"

Grinning ear to ear, the woman looks him over—head to toe.

"The angel, of course. Silly.

N-Now that God is gone... angels fall from the skies.

Mine will too.

Just wait and see."

The man, shocked at her answer, says:

"What rubbish—G-God is gone? How can you even say that?"

The woman giggles behind her hand.

"Well, it’s true. Look around you, mister. Do you see any sign of God?"

She leans closer.

"He left us."

She starts counting on her fingers.

Then keeps counting.

And counting.

Her fingers keep splitting and blooming—like a flower made of hands, branching out endlessly.

Too many.

Impossible.

Wrong.

With a grin so wide she could swallow the sun, she says:

"He left us this many years ago."

The man—scared shirtless—runs.

He runs from her as fast as he can, deeper into the fog, toward a desolated church, her giggle echoing in the background like a lullaby for the damned.

Panting. Huffing. Barely standing, he slams into the church door and falls to the floor.

He looks up.

There’s no crucifix above the entrance.

No light in the stained glass.

No angels in the corners.

The floorboards beneath him creak and crumble—rotten, broken, tired.

He pulls himself to his feet.

Eyes toward the door.

And there… nailed above it… is a wooden sign.

Burned into the wood are the words:

> "Leave your religion and faith at the door—

because we ain’t the House of Light anymore."

He goes inside the church.

It’s silent.

In the corner of the room, he sees what looks like a priest—or what remains of him. A twisted figure slumped against the altar, half bone, half robe. There’s a staircase that leads upward, and a church without a God.

He thinks to himself:

Maybe God really is gone. Maybe I am doomed for eternity.

He loses hope.

Turns around.

Was about to leave—

When he hears a voice.

Angelic. Soft. Gentle.

> "Child, don't go disheartened."

He freezes.

Turns back.

No one in sight.

Confused, trembling, he begins walking again, stepping toward the exit.

> "Come back, child. Even though abandoned by His maker, this is still the House of God."

He turns again—and now he sees it.

The remains of the priest are glowing. A faint golden aura pulses from the bones and robes.

He walks up to it. The figure does not move, but its voice fills the church like sunlight through dust.

> "What's ailing you, my child? Fess up. I do not judge—because it's not my place."

The man speaks, half-hearted, almost bitter:

> "God’s gone. And you say this is still the House of God?

In this limbo? Is this another trick?"

The priest replies, voice heavenly—but sad:

> "My child... even though He left us, this house was made in His name.

The heavens may stay vacant—but this house is home to prayers, love... and memory."

A slight glimmer in his eyes the man asks

"So god really is gone, why did he leave us ? Why such cruelty ?"

The priest replies:

> "My child, only He knows what He is doing.

Maybe He is testing us.

Maybe He is angry with us.

Maybe He is still there—but simply wants us to fend for ourselves.

Because we have all forgotten how to fight.

> No matter the reason God left us—

He didn’t leave us with nothing.

He created hope—hope for a better tomorrow.

And dedication—dedication to see it through."

The man stands there—

Almost spooked by the raw emotion swelling in his chest.

After all this time, after all the horrors, this gentle voice scares him more than the darkness in the pines ever did.

Like a dog who only knows the taste of meat,

He forgot what milk tasted like.

Softly, he asks:

> "Who is the... I mean, what is the big tree?

Where does he come into all this?"

The priest replies:

> "He was the guardian.

The guide of Limbo.

Tasked with the sacred duty of leading souls to Heaven... or Hell.

> But when God left... he began to rot.

He grew weak.

Twisted.

He began locking souls in Limbo—

And torturing them for his own amusement you've must've come across some of the twisted souls haven't you.

> What was once God's humble servant

Now listens to no one...

But his own savage thoughts."**

The man stands, devastated.

But somewhere deep inside...

He already knew.

Still holding the little watch in his hands, he asks:

> "...So I am dead?"

The priest says nothing.

The man asks:

> "Is there any way out of this?"

The priest stays silent for a while.

Then softly says:

> "My child... the Tree’s might holds us here.

But do not lose hope.

You see the stairs there? Go upstairs.

Inside the door—follow the light.

Your dedication... will be your salvation."

With that, the glimmer behind the priest grows dim.

And fades.

The man puts the little watch back in his pocket.

Looks up at the staircase.

And begins to climb.

He stands in front of the door.

Pauses.

Breathes.

Then opens it.

And steps inside.

It’s pitch dark.

But in the distance—

A light.

He starts walking toward it.

But it doesn’t get any closer.

He keeps walking.

What felt like a straight path now begins to tilt upward, slowly, subtly—

Like walking up a hill that wasn’t there before.

But he keeps going.

Finally, the light seems close.

One step more—and he is free.

With hope in his chest, he reaches forward—

And puts one foot into the light.

Suddenly—

A sharp, splitting ache floods his mind—

Like a nerve snapping inside his brain.

Then—

A voice.

Cold. Familiar.

Mocking. Eternal.

> "Hohoho... thou didn’t understand, didst thou?

Not a leaf falls into the muddied puddle

Without my say so."

The man faints.

When he wakes up—

He’s standing at the edge of the path that leads deeper into the pines.

Fog all around.

Memory gone.

Heart hollow.

He doesn’t know who he is.

Or where he is.

So—

He walks in.

---

FIN.