Everyone blamed her. The whole world seemed to be against her.

  She had grown used to it by now—but even so, her heart still ached.

  After learning about the legend, a quiet longing bloomed within her—a desperate hope to see the boy again. Maybe... just maybe, if she could meet him once more, her world might finally change.

  So she began her search for answers.

  Book by book, shelf by shelf, she scoured every dusty corner of the village library. But nothing. No clues. Not even a whisper.

  Her only option now was the forests. But which one?

  She had no idea.

  So she made a promise to herself: she would explore every forest near her town—perhaps then, something, anything, would guide her.

  With a heart full of hope and sorrow, she ventured into the five forests surrounding her home, one by one. Each time, she returned with nothing but silence and aching feet.

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  No glowing door. No magic. No signs.

  Just wind... and the weight of disappointment.

  But there was one strange thing.

  In every forest, she found a delicate, iridescent feather nestled among the underbrush. Shimmering with soft hues of silver and blue, the feathers felt otherworldly—out of place, almost watching her.

  She kept each one, gently pressed into her journal, like quiet symbols of a path unfolding.

  On her fifth forest visit, the air shifted. The atmosphere felt different—heavier. The wind was still. The trees stood in unnatural silence, and a hush seemed to drape over everything like a warning.

  As she stepped deeper into the woods, faint whispers danced between the leaves—too soft to understand, yet undeniably real. The trees leaned in closer, branches creaking as though trying to speak.

  A shiver traced her spine.

  Still, she pressed forward. She had to find something. Anything.

  Later that night, drained and defeated, she rummaged through a forgotten box beneath her bed—one filled with old keepsakes.

  There, tucked between the pages of a worn storybook they once read together, she found a photograph.

  It showed the two of them, years ago, sitting beneath a crooked, towering tree—its roots curled like claws around the earth.

  On the back, in the boy’s unmistakable handwriting, were the words:

  “Forest of Whispers – 20th April, 2025.”

  Her breath caught.

  The Forest of Whispers.

  It was farther than she’d ever dared to explore.

  But now she had a place. A date. A memory.

  She packed her bag that very night, the photograph held close to her chest.

  No more waiting.

  She was going.