WE ARE THE SISTERS OF THE GROVE

A forest tale told in the voices of three Nymphs-Ashen, Liri and Thistle

ASHEN

I speak first because I am the eldest and the trees listen best to me. My roots are deep-not in soil but in knowing. I do not move quickly. I do not speak often. But when I do, the moss hushes, and the wind stills.

We are not guardians in the way humans imagine. No swords.No spells. We do not fight. We endure.

The forest is not a place. It is a rhythm. A breath. A long, slow exhale. I tend the rhythm. I walk the perimeter each dusk, touching bark, whispering to the undergrowth. I know when the deer are uneasy. I know when the mushrooms grow too fast. I know when the river forgets its name.

Liri sings to the canopy. Thistles dances with the bramble. I listen to the silence between them.

LIRI

Ashen is stone and shadow. I am light and leaf. I do not walk-I flit. I do not speak-I hum. My voice is the echo of birdsong, the shimmer of dew on spider silk.

I climb. I leap. I hang upside down from the high branch and laugh until the owls blink at me in confusion. I braid sunlight into the leaves. I teach the vines to curl around intruders-not to harm, but to confuse. Let them wander in circles until they forget what they came for.

I am not cruel. I am clever. I am the reason the forest feels enchanted, even when it its not. I make the trees seem taller. I make the shadows seem deeper. I make the air shimmer with secrets.

Thistles says I am too playful. Ashen says I am too loud. But when the forest needs joy, it calls my name.

THISTLE

They forget that I am the one who bites.

I am the youngest, but I am the sharpest. My thorns are not metaphor. My vines do not ask permission. I do not guard the forest with kindness. I guard it with consequence.

I live in the underbrush, in the tangle places. I speak to the nettles, the burrs, the roots that twist like warning. I know every fox den, every badger burrow, every place where the ground softens into trap.

When the forest is threatened, I do not wait. I rise. I snare. I sting.

But I am not only fury. I am also the hush of dusk, the scent of cursed mint, the warmth of moss beneath bare feet. I know how to comfort. I just choose not to.

Ashen is stillness. Liri is the shimmer. I am the edge.

ASHEN (again)

We do not age. We do not change. We do not forget.

We are the sisters of the grove. We are not names carved into bark. We are the bark.

We are not the stories told around fires. We are the fire's silence when it dies.

We are the protectors because we are chosen.

We are protectors because we are the forest.

And the forest does not asked to be saved.

It asks to be left alone.

WE ARE STILL LISTENING

The forest speaks again, through Ashen, Liri and Thistle

ASHEN

There is something stirring. Not danger. Not yet. But a shift.

The stones beneath the river have changed their song. I felt it yesterday when I pressed my palm to the coldest one. It hummed a note I did not recognize. Not wrong. Just... new.

I do not fear change. I do not welcome it either. I observe. I endure.

Liri has begun to hum differently. Her melodies curl tighter, like vines in drought. Thistle has grown quieter, which is never a good sign.

I walked the perimeter again last night. The trees leaned in. The wind did not speak. Even the owls blinked too slowly.

Something is coming. Or something is walking.

LIRI

Ashen always feels things first. But I hear them.

The canopy is restless. The leaves twitch even when the air is still. The birds forget their songs halfway through. The squirrels chatter nonsense. I tried to sing to the vines this morning. And they recoil. Not in fear. In confusion.

I climb to the highest branch of the old cedar-the one that remembers fire-and I looked out. The horizon was wrong. Not darker. Not brighter. Just... watching.

I sang a lullaby to the wind. It did not carry it.

I do not like this quiet. It is not the hush of peace. It is the pause before a question.

THISTLE

I found a footprint.

No human. Nit animal. Not anything I know.

It was pressed into the soft earth near the fox den. Wide. Deep. Too symmetrical. It smelled of stone and salt and something that does not belong.

I covered it with bramble. I whispered to the nettles to sting anything that returned. I told the roots to remember.

I do not trust what does not name it self.

Ashen says to wait. Liri says to sing. I say to sharpen.

I have thorns enough for whatever comes.

ASHEN (again)

We are not afraid. But we are not unguarded.

The forest is old. Older than names. Older than stories. Older than whatever presses its shape into our soil.

We are the sisters of the grove.

We do not sleep.

We do not welcome what does not listen.

Let it come.

Let it try.

Let it learn what it means to be misunderstood by the forest.

THE THING THAT DOES NOT NAME ITSELF

The sisters speak again, as the forest listens

ASHEN

It came at twilight.

Not with footsteps. Not with sound. With presence.

The trees did not bend. The wind did not stir. But the rhythm faltered. The breath of the forest caught in its throat.

I stood at the edge of the hollow, where the stones remember fire and roots remember drowning. It was there. Not visible. Not hidden. A shape made of pause.

I did not speak. I pressed my hand to the bark of the oldest pine. It paused once. A warning. A welcome. I could not tell.

Liri was above me. Thistle was below. We did not call to each other. We did not need to.

We were three. And the forest was watching.

LIRI

I saw it first.

Not with eyes. With shimmer.

The air around it bent-not like heat, not like magic. Like memory refusing to settle. It flickered, not in light, but in certainty.

I tired to sing. My voice came out wrong. Mot broken. Just... echoed. As if something else had already sung the same note and claimed it.

I leapt from branch to branch, circling it. It did not move. It did not follow. But it knew I was there.

I whispered to the leaves. They curled inward. I whispered to the birds. They blinked and forgot me.

I do not like being forgotten.

THISTLE

I touched it.

I should not have. But I did.

I reached out with a vine-not a sharp one, not a snare. A curious tendril. A question.

It did not recoil. It did not respond. It simply observe.

The vine withered. Not from poison. From confusion. It forgot how to be a vine.

I pulled back. I hissed. I told the bramble to retreat. I told the nettles to sleep.

I do not know what it is. But I know what it is not.

It's not forest.

It's not name.

It's not story.

And yet it is here.

ASHEN (again)

We did not speak to it. We did not ask it to leave. We did not welcome it.

We stood. We watched. We endured.

It did not threaten. It did not plead. It did not explain.

It simply existed. And the forest held its breath.

We are the sisters of the grove.

We do not chase.

We do not flee.

We do not forget.

But this thing... this thing may never be remembered, because it never arrived.

It simply was.

THE FOREST BEGINS TO FORGET

The sisters speak as the rhythm falters

ASHEN

It has not left. But it has not stayed.

It moves without moving. It speaks without sound. It alters without touch.

The stones no longer hum. The river no longer remembers its bend. Even the trees-my oldest confidents-have begun to hesitate before answering.

I walked the perimeter last night. The path was there, but it did not know me. The moss did not soften beneath my feet. The bark did not pulse beneath my hand.

I am not afraid. But I am no longer certain.

Liri hums to herself now, not to the forest. Thistle sharpens vines that no longer sting. We are still three. But the forest is no longer whole.

LIRI

I tired to sing the sunrise awake-it did not rise.

The light came, yes. But not the warmth. Not the golden hush. Just illumination, flat and unfeeling.

I climbed to the cedar again. It did not sway. I leapt from branch to branch. They did not catch me.

I sang to the birds. They blinked. They flew. But they did not answer.

I sang to the vines. They curled. But not around me. Around themselves. As if protecting something I could not see.

I do not like this forgetting. I do not like being unrecognized.

I am Liri. I shimmer. I sing. I belong.

But the forest no longer sings back.

THISTLE

I set traps. Not to catch. To remember.

I wove nettles into patterns only the foxes know. I whispered to the burrs to cling only those who walk with purpose. I told the thorns to mark the wanderers.

But the traps remain untouched. Not because nothing passes. Because nothing chooses.

The thing that came-it does not wander. It does not choose. It simply is. And now so is everything else.

I touched a vine this morning. It did not recoil. it did not embrace. It did not know me.

I am Thistle. I sting. I protect. I remember.

But the forest no longer remembers me.

ASHEN (again)

We are not gone. We are not broken. But we are no longer whole.

The forest breathes. But it does not sigh. It grows. But does not stretch. It listens. But it does not hear.

We are the sisters of the grove.

We endure.

We shimmer.

We sting.

But the rhythm is changing.

And we do not yet know the new song.

WE BEGIN TO ADAPT

The sisters speak as the forest shifts beneath them

ASHEN

I no longer walk the perimeter. It does not know me.

Instead, I sit beneath the oldest pine and listen-not for rhythm, but for absence. The forest stills breathes, but it does not exhale. It holds something in its chest. Something unnamed.

I have begun to mark the trees-not with symbol, not with words, with touch. A slow press of palm to bark. A reminder. A question. A promise.

Some trees respond. A few pulse faintly. Others remain still, as if waiting for a different hand.

I do not mourn. Mournings is for endings. This is not an ending. This is a pause.

We are still three. But we are no longer guardians. We are witnesses.

LIRI

I tried to sing the old songs. They unravel mid-note.

So, I hum new ones. Not melodies. Patterns. Threads. I weave sound into silence, hoping it catches.

The canopy does not shimmer. But it listens. Not with joy. With curiosity.

I climb trees now. I stay close to the ground. I speak to the ferns. They remember me. Not fully. But enough.

I have begun to mimic the thing. Not its shape. Its stillness. I sit in the clearing and do nothing. I let the forest forget me. And then sometimes it remembers.

I do not choose recognition. I offer presence. And sometimes that is enough.

THISTLE

I no longer set traps. There is nothing to catch.

Instead, I plant. Not seeds. Not snares. Questions.

I bury thornless vines in place the thing has passed. I whisper to the soil. I ask it what it felt. It does not answer. But sometimes it shifts.

I have begun to grow things that do not sting. Soft things. Curious things. I do not trust them. But I let them grow.

I watch the thing from afar. It does not move. But the forest around it changes. Not dies. Not blooms. Just... alters.

I do not fight it. I do not welcome it. I learn form it. I am Thistle. I protect. I adapt. I endure.

ASHEN (again)

We are no longer what we were. But we are still.

The forest does not forget us. It misremembers. It reshapes. It reinterprets.

We are the sisters of the grove.

We do not resist.

We do not surrender.

We do not vanish.

We become.