The Forest That Remembers

There was once a small village named Arunya, nestled between gentle hills and covered by the arms of an ancient forest. The forest, with trees older than stories and rivers that hummed like lullabies, was more than just greenery to the villagers — it was life, memory, and magic.

In this village lived a quiet boy named Ayan. He wasn’t the loudest or the brightest, but he had a heart that could feel things deeply. His eyes were always watching — the way sunlight filtered through the trees, the way dew clung to spiderwebs in the morning, and how the breeze would speak when no one else did.

Ayan’s favourite place in the entire world was a giant oak tree deep inside the forest. It was wider than any house and taller than any tower. The villagers called it the “Memory Tree.” They believed that if you sat under it and closed your eyes, you could hear the whispers of the past — the voices of people long gone and dreams long forgotten.

Every evening, after helping his mother fetch water and feed the chickens, Ayan would run into the woods and sit under the Memory Tree. He would bring his notebook and write what he heard — not voices exactly, but feelings, like soft echoes of stories in the air.

One day, the forest changed.

Clouds hung heavier. The birds didn’t sing. The river, once cheerful, now flowed silently. Ayan noticed this shift. The forest that had always felt alive now felt afraid.

When he asked the elders, they shook their heads. “It’s nothing, child,” they said. “Seasons change.”

But Ayan knew it wasn’t just the season.

That night, a strong wind howled through Arunya. Trees groaned, and lightning cracked across the sky. Ayan couldn’t sleep. He had a strange dream — the oak tree was burning, and the forest was crying. When he woke up, the first thing he did was run toward the forest.

The path was muddy, and branches were broken everywhere. He reached the Memory Tree, and his heart froze.

There were red ribbons tied around the tree’s trunk. Wooden stakes had been hammered into the ground. A group of men stood nearby with axes and ropes.

They were here to cut the tree.

Ayan hid behind a bush, eyes wide. He listened to the men talk.

“They say the wood from this tree is rare and expensive.”

“The government has approved it. No one lives in these forests anyway.”

“But it’s sacred to the villagers,” one man said softly.

“They’ll forget. Trees are just trees.”

Those words hit Ayan like a stone. Just trees? He wanted to shout, to cry, to stop them — but he was just a child, and the world doesn’t listen to quiet children.

Or so he thought.

That night, he made a decision. He wouldn’t let the Memory Tree fall in silence.

The next morning, Ayan stood in front of the tree, holding a cardboard sign:
“This Tree Remembers Us. Let It Live.”

No one paid much attention at first. But then an old woman joined him — then a group of children. Then a teacher. Then his own mother. Within days, the whole village stood around the Memory Tree.

People brought flowers and lanterns. They shared stories about the forest — how someone healed under its shade, how someone proposed near the river, how someone cried their heart out under the stars and felt understood. The forest had been a silent witness to everything.

News spread. Ayan’s picture appeared in a local newspaper: “Boy Saves Sacred Tree.”

Activists came. Officials arrived. Plans changed. The men with axes left.

The Memory Tree was saved.

The forest sighed in relief, and the birds returned with songs louder than before. The river danced again. And the forest, once afraid, now stood proud.

Ayan never claimed to be a hero. He continued visiting the tree every day. But something had changed — not just in the forest, but in him too.

He had found his voice. A voice that rose not in anger, but in love. A voice that reminded everyone of something they had forgotten:

That nature doesn’t belong to us.

We belong to it.