Forest of Whispers

The digital glow of my laptop screen was a poor imitation of moonlight, but it was the only light I had in this cramped apartment. Outside, the city hummed its usual indifferent tune, a symphony of sirens and distant traffic. Inside, however, a different kind of world was stirring. I was deep in the forest of my memories, a place that smelled of damp earth and pine needles, where the air itself seemed to hum with ancient secrets.

It was a forest not found on any map, a place woven from the threads of Lithuanian folklore, a place where the old gods still walked, their footsteps echoing through the silent trees. I’d been there often in my dreams, a solitary wanderer tracing paths only I could see. Tonight, though, the forest felt different. It felt… alive. The moon, a sliver of silver in the ink-black sky, cast long, dancing shadows that seemed to writhe with a life of their own. The wind, usually a gentle murmur, whispered names I hadn't heard in years, names that clung to the rough bark of the ancient oaks like moss.

And then, I saw them. Ravens. Not just one or two, but a parliament of them, perched on the highest branches, their obsidian eyes glinting with an unnerving intelligence. They were the guardians of this place, the messengers of the old ways. They always knew when something was shifting, when the veil between worlds grew thin.