Ethan’s energy was genuine, but he lacked the seasoning of experience. When the trucks stopped, the forest didn’t greet them with hostility, but with indifference. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, but beneath that was a faint metallic tang—subtle, almost imperceptible.
The mist didn’t burn off even after the sun came up. Animal tracks appeared and vanished, as if the wildlife was just passing through without stopping. Alex unloaded his gear methodically.
He noticed patches of ground that felt unnaturally packed down. Scars on the bark that didn’t look like lightning strikes or bear claw marks. Individually, they were nothing. Together, they gave him the feeling that this place knew humans a little too well.
The work began. The roar of chainsaws shattered the silence, but the forest seemed to swallow the sound. Falling trees hit the ground with a dull thud, without the usual echoing crash. Alex moved in his own rhythm, letting his body do what it knew best. The physical labor kept his mind steady, yet he felt a presence—not a person watching, but the space itself.
The forest wasn’t spying, but it wasn’t looking away either. Toward evening, as the light turned gray, he saw it for the first time. The tree stood slightly apart from the others, not isolated, but in a way that disrupted the natural pattern of the grove.
The trunk was thicker than its height should have allowed. The bark was darker, almost charred in places. He didn’t approach it immediately. He just noted the landmarks: a fallen spruce, a cluster of boulders, a patch of pale lichen. Experience told him to wait.
When the camp settled into the night, sleep didn’t come easy. The image of that tree didn’t cause fear, but it raised a question. Alex lay there, listening to the wind in the canopy, realizing that the forest doesn’t hide things out of spite. It preserves them. And sometimes, it waits. He’d wake up before the others and take a closer look.
The morning was gray and damp. The air felt thick, as if the forest hadn’t decided whether to let the men in for another day. Work started without much chatter. After the storm, the tract looked messy and exhausted.
Fallen logs, snapped tops, and trees leaning at dangerous angles over the planned skid trail. The crew moved in a line, divvying up the zones. Alex stayed in the middle—not leading, not lagging—where he could watch without drawing attention.
He noticed right away that the woods here felt different than they did near the camp. Not in appearance, but in “weight.” The ground under his boots felt solid, harder than usual, as if it had been intentionally leveled.
The pine needles lay in a thin layer, not piling up like they did elsewhere. It was odd for an old-growth stand. And then he saw it again.
The pine stood just off the clearing line. It didn’t interfere with the machinery, didn’t hang over the path—by all the rules, he could have left it standing. But Alex felt that familiar tension between his shoulder blades. The same feeling he’d get in the service seconds before something went sideways.
The trunk was too thick for its height. It didn’t look majestic; it looked heavy. As if the tree hadn’t grown upward, but had been forced to expand from within.
The bark had a dark, uneven tint, as if it had been scorched, but not by fire. The color reminded him of old coal rubbed into the wood by time. Alex stepped closer.
The earth at the roots was hard, almost like stone. He pressed the toe of his boot against it; there was none of the usual forest floor give. Furthermore, there were almost no needles around the base. It was as if the tree wasn’t shedding, or the ground wouldn’t accept them. It didn’t fit the natural order.
At chest height, the trunk was covered in burls—not random ones. They spiraled slowly upward, as if the tree were twisting itself around something invisible. Alex had seen tree diseases, insect damage, and lightning scars. This didn’t look like any of them.
He ran a hand over the bark. Even through his glove, he could feel the irregularities—old, smoothed over by time. And among them, marks.
Rough notches, partially swallowed by layers of wood, and uneven chainsaw nicks. They had been made by hand, haphazardly, at different depths, as if someone had been working in a hurry or in poor light. Someone had touched this tree a long time ago, and more than once…
