Woodheart and the Moss Mice – Part III

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The Listening Moment Ever since the tree had returned its first note, the forest had changed—not louder, but more complete. The treetops breathed in time with the roots, and even the light seemed to dance rhythmically through the leaves. But amidst all the new sounding, Woodheart sat on her bench of mushroom stone and moss, silent as ever, her chin in her hands, her feet bare in the morning dew. The moss mice had gathered around her as they did every day, but this time no one spoke first. The youngest of them—the one with the crumpled leaf for a cloak—squinted at Woodheart's chest, where the amber glow pulsed softly. It had grown stronger since the hollow tree had awakened, but also...more restless. "What do you hear?" the mouse with the seed button finally squeaked. Woodheart didn't move. Her eyes rested open among the shadows of the trees, and although her face betrayed little, there was a deep stillness in her gaze—one that seemed to be listening. "Not everything that sounds is sound," she said finally, without moving her lips, as always. The mice moved closer, their small bodies trembling with eager anticipation. "Some things... speak in the gap between what is said." "Do you mean... the silence?" asked the little mouse with the fern frond on its back. Woodheart inclined his head slightly. "I mean the listening itself. When no one listens anymore, even the stones forget they once had voices." The moss mice looked at each other, embarrassed. They could listen, after all! Every sound carried by the wind, every trace of a drop on moss—they heard it. They thought. "Come," Woodheart said now. She stood up slowly, as if every bone click in the wood answered a question. "I want to show you something." She led them to a small clearing where three trees stood in a circle, old as sleep. Between their roots lay a depression in the ground, round, lined with soft moss. In the center rested a single leaf—faded, almost transparent. It was completely silent here. Not a rustle, not a hum. "This is the Listening Circle," whispered Woodheart. "Here, once, each new story was greeted—not with cheers, but with an ear." The moss mice crowded to the edge. They sensed at once that the silence in this circle was not empty, but filled—with anticipation, with memory. Woodheart sat down in the hollow and placed her hands on the earth. Her eyes closed. The mice held their breath. Then, barely audibly, the ground began to whisper. It was not a sound in the true sense, but a feeling that thought like a sound. The mice heard of a time when rain still had names, when every branch knew which bird would perch on it. They heard the crackle of an ancient promise once deposited in the roots. And they heard the doubt—faintly—whether that promise had ever been kept. "What is that?" asked the bravest mouse, trembling. Woodheart opened his eyes. "That's the part of the forest that can say nothing more. Because no one listens anymore." The moss mice were very silent.