T
The village of Oakhaven had exactly one rule that mattered: Never go near the Old Willow after sunset. The elders claimed the tree was cursed, a monument to a grief so profound it had warped the very earth around it. Its branches, heavy with silver-green leaves, draped low to the ground like the hair of a mourning widow, creating a curtain that hid the trunk from view.
Lily, being ten years old and possessed of more curiosity than sense, found the rule impossible to obey. She didn’t believe in curses. She believed in secrets.
One autumn evening, when the moon was a thin sliver of bone in the sky, Lily crept out of her bedroom window. The grass was cold and wet against her bare feet as she ran toward the hill where the willow stood alone. The wind was still, yet the leaves of the tree rustled with a sound like hushed voices.
She pushed through the curtain of leaves. Inside, the air was warmer, smelling faintly of lavender and old rain. The trunk of the willow was immense, its bark gnarled into shapes that looked disturbingly like faces.
“Hello?” Lily whispered. Her voice seemed too loud in the enclosed space.
“Hello, little bird,” a voice replied. It didn't come from a person. It came from everywhere at once, rustling through the leaves.
Lily spun around. “Who’s there?”
“I am the roots that drink. I am the leaves that weep. I am the memory of this land.”
A root shifted near Lily’s foot, unearthing a small, smooth stone. No, not a stone. A locket. It was tarnished silver, etched with a crest Lily didn’t recognize—a tower pierced by a sword.
“Take it,” the Willow whispered. “It is heavy for me to hold.”
Lily picked up the locket. It was cold. She pried it open with a fingernail. Inside was a miniature painting of a young man with laughing eyes and a crown of gold.
“Who is he?” Lily asked.
“A prince,” the tree sighed, a sound that shook a few yellow leaves from the branches. “Long ago, before your village was built, a castle stood here. It was a place of joy. But joy is fragile. War came, as it always does. The prince fell defending the gates. His beloved, a sorceress of great power, could not bear the loss. She planted a sapling over his grave and poured her life force into it, binding her soul to the earth so she could hold him forever.”
Lily looked at the twisted bark faces. “So… you are the sorceress?”
“I am what remains of her. I am the sorrow that outlasted the love. For centuries, I have held this hill, protecting his bones from the world. But I am tired, little bird. So very tired. Sorrow is a heavy nutrient; it chokes the soil.”
The branches shifted, allowing a beam of moonlight to strike the ground. There, half-buried in the dirt, lay the hilt of a rusted sword.
“The curse is not magic,” the Willow said. “The curse is memory. I cannot forget, so I cannot fade. But you… you are young. Your heart is a blank page.”
“What do you want me to do?” Lily asked, clutching the locket.
“Remember him for me,” the tree pleaded. “Take his likeness. Tell his story. If he lives in your memory, perhaps I can finally let go.”
Lily closed her hand around the locket. She thought of the young man with the laughing eyes, dying for a kingdom that no longer existed. “I promise. I’ll tell everyone about the brave prince.”
A shudder went through the tree. It wasn’t a shudder of fear, but of relief. The oppressive warmth in the air dissipated, replaced by the crisp chill of the night. The silver-green leaves began to turn a brilliant, fiery gold.
“Thank you,” the voice faded, becoming just the wind in the branches. “Now run home, little bird. The dawn is coming.”
Lily ran. She didn’t look back until she reached her own garden gate. When she turned, the hill was aglow. The Old Willow was shedding its leaves in a magnificent cascade of gold, like a fountain of light. By morning, the tree was bare, standing silent and still against the sunrise. It looked smaller, ordinary. Just a tree.
But Lily kept her promise. She told the story to the other children, then to her own children, and then to her grandchildren. And though the castle was gone and the sorceress faded, the prince with the laughing eyes lived on, immortal in the stories of Oakhaven.