The Hollow Beneath the Hill

The path was never straight.

But neither was she.

Courtney’s boots pressed into damp moss as she wandered deeper into the forest that shouldn’t exist—at least not here, not this close to town, not tucked behind a crumbling stone fence barely waist-high. But something in her ribcage had hummed like a compass needle caught on fate, and her feet had followed.

She told herself it was just a walk. Just air.

But the truth was this: she was unraveling. Again.

Three missed calls from her mother. A tight-lipped supervisor expecting her to “get over it.” A well-meaning friend who said, “But you seem so strong.”

She didn’t want to be strong. She wanted to be seen.

And the forest… well, the forest was looking at her.

Not in the way people did—through lenses of expectation or misunderstanding. This was different.

The wind shifted when she stepped through the archway of trees. The sunlight fractured into golden ribbons. Leaves rustled with memory.

Courtney swallowed hard. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’m listening.”

She followed the hollow sound of a stream, then a faint ringing—like bells underwater.

The ground sloped subtly, almost imperceptibly, until she realized the trees around her had grown taller, older. Their bark shimmered faintly with silver veins, and mushrooms bloomed like constellations along their roots. Somewhere behind her, the world faded—cell service gone, reality on mute.

Ahead, nestled between two massive oaks, was a hill that didn’t belong. It wasn’t a mound or rise—it was hollow, she could feel it. The earth there was too quiet.

Courtney stepped toward it.

She knelt, brushing aside a thick layer of moss. Underneath, her fingers met something carved. Symbols. Spirals. Not language, but emotion. A key without a lock.

The earth pulsed once beneath her palm.

And opened.

The fall wasn’t violent. It was slow, like sinking into a warm bath, like giving in to sleep when your body’s too tired to fight anymore. She drifted down through layers of earth that flickered like memories—her childhood bedroom, the high school hallway where she first panicked in public, her grandmother’s perfume.

Then: darkness.

Then: light.

And then—The Hollow.

It was a chamber, enormous and breathing. Roots twisted like chandeliers above her. Bioluminescent flowers lit the space in hues of indigo, mint, and deep amber. The walls shimmered with embedded stones that pulsed faintly with heartbeat rhythm.

This wasn’t just nature.

This was something older. Wiser.

She stood slowly. “Where am I?”

The chamber did not answer with words.

It answered with reflection.

A pool at the center of the room rippled once, then cleared.

She approached, and there, in the water—not her face. But versions of her.

One was still. One was fractured. One smiled too wide, too fake.

One wore the crooked crown. The version she buried the deepest.

Not the “good” version. Not the “quiet, compliant, let-me-please-you” version.

No. This one was chaotic and raw and radiant. The one who screamed in therapy. The one who kissed like wildfire. The one who demanded to be chosen.

She reached toward the water. “I miss you.”

The water rippled. The image disappeared.

Behind her, something shifted.

A figure emerged—not from shadow, but from the very walls themselves. Not a monster. Not a savior.

Something in-between.

Its form was cloaked in ivy. Antlers sprouted from its head, draped in star-shaped blossoms. Its eyes were hollow, not empty—but endless. Like time.

“You came,” it said, in a voice made of thunder softened by velvet.

Courtney’s knees trembled. “Did I know I was coming?”

The creature tilted its head. “Your grief did. Your rage did. Your truth always knew the way.”

She wanted to run. She wanted to stay forever.

Instead, she asked, “Why does this place feel like it knows me?”

“Because you’ve been here before.”

She blinked. “I don’t remember.”

“Not with your mind,” it said gently. “But your wounds remember. And so do your roots.”

The Hollow wasn’t a place. It was a process.

Each chamber led to another. Each revealed a piece of herself.

In one, she saw every time she apologized for existing too loudly.

In another, she found a small box with her name on it. Inside: a note that simply read, “You were never meant to be digestible.”

In the next, she screamed until her voice cracked.

Then whispered affirmations to the cracked walls:

“I am not wrong.”

“I am not too much.”

“I am still worthy, even if I shatter again tomorrow.”

And the Hollow answered back, not with echo—but with warmth.

Roots wrapped gently around her wrist, not to restrain, but to anchor.

In the final chamber, she found the tree.

Massive. Glowing from within. Its bark carved with hundreds of symbols she couldn’t read—but somehow felt.

Names. Stories. Sobs and survival.

It pulsed with the weight of a thousand untold truths.

Courtney approached it slowly.

At its base was a small altar. Upon it—a mirror. Not glass. Not metal. Just water in a bowl of stone.

She looked.

And saw herself.

Not a version. Just her. Tear-streaked, unsure. Alive.

Behind her, the cloaked creature spoke again.

“You may leave when you are ready. But what you reclaim must be worn.”

She looked down.

Beside the bowl, her crown.

Crooked. Colorful. Dusty from disuse.

She lifted it, hands trembling.

Placed it on her head.

It didn’t fit perfectly.

But it didn’t fall off, either.

The path out was not the same as the way in.

She climbed through memory and root, thought and thorn.

And when she emerged from the hilltop, moss falling from her shoulders, the forest did not spit her out.

It released her.

She breathed in.

The air was the same—but she was not.

The sun was shining when Courtney stepped back onto the trail. The real world (or the near-real world) stretched out ahead.

She had no proof. No photos. No map of the Hollow.

But she had the weight of the crown on her head—and the echo of the roots in her chest.

She was still complicated.

Still healing.

Still unsure.

But she was whole.

And she was awake.

She took a final look at the hidden hill—now just earth and wildflowers again.

And with quiet confidence—

Courtney stepped out into the sunshine.