Ysaria Greenheart, the Memory Guardian of the Breath Forest

More about Ysaria Greenheart, the Memory Guardian of the Breath Forest

In the Breath Forest, the air grew. Not like in cities, where it's simply there and no one gives it a second thought—no, here it hung in shimmering threads between the branches, dripped down mossy edges, and gathered in the hollows of ancient roots like morning dew. Whoever came to this forest breathed in not only air, but also memories. And someone had to make sure that no memory became too heavy. This was Ysaria Greenheart's job. Ysaria wasn't human, and not a tree either—at least not entirely. Her skin was covered in soft moss, dark green and fragrant with rain. Her hair was a tangle of branches that grew in gentle arcs, adorned with blossoms, berries, and small, luminous forest lights that looked as if stars had decided to take a vacation. An owl often sat beside her, serious as a librarian before closing time. It didn't speak, but it commented a great deal with its glances. One could feel very observed, even when thinking, "Did I water my houseplant?" Ysaria's task was simply described, but difficult to live: she collected memories that had become too heavy for people's hearts. For some memories are like stones—and some like water—and some like the feeling of having forgotten something without ever having known it. One day, a wanderer came into the forest, unaware that he was carrying something. This often happens: the heaviest things are the ones you don't feel. His step was carefree, his eyes open, but his shadows were long—longer than the day could allow. Ysaria noticed it immediately. "You have something with you that doesn't want to go with you," she said. The wanderer blinked. "Me? Oh, no. I travel light. I have only the bare necessities: bread, sleep, and the hope that no one notices that I don't actually know where I'm going." The owl looked at him as if: lie detected. Ysaria reached out her hand. And there it was: a memory in the form of a small, dark sphere, heavy as rain on a winter's day. The wanderer was startled. "Oh... that... I'd forgotten about that." "Yes," said Ysaria gently. "They usually do." The sphere trembled, as if saying: I'm still here. I've always been here. Ysaria took it in her moss-green hand. Where she touched it, tiny leaves sprouted. The dark memory brightened. It changed shape. Slowly, it became a small plant, delicate as a first thought. A tiny laugh vibrated within it—the quiet, bright laugh that arises when you open a door and no longer know why you came. But it's still okay. "Now," said Ysaria, "it's no longer heavy. Now it's history. And stories can be carried." The wanderer held the small plant that had once been pain and felt: it weighed almost nothing. Only warmth.