Whisper from the Pines

Chapter One — The Quiet Arrival

Noah Lee didn’t like silence. Not the heavy kind that wrapped itself around your chest and refused to let go. Not the kind that filled the car as his mother drove them up winding roads into the foggy mountains, neither of them saying a word.

His headphones played the same song on loop — something slow, haunting, with lyrics he barely listened to anymore.

Pinehollow welcomed them with mist instead of people. The town seemed like it had been forgotten by time, its wooden sign half-faded, its streets too quiet for 3 p.m. on a weekday. There were pine trees everywhere — tall and ancient, brushing the sky like they owned it. They leaned in close, whispering to each other when no one was looking.

Noah stepped out of the car and stared up at them.

“Creepy,” he muttered.

Everything in Pinehollow felt like it had been paused mid-sentence: the chipped café sign that no one repainted, the windows that never changed displays, the locals who nodded without smiling — like they knew exactly who you were, and they didn’t need to ask why you came.

Noah had reasons. He always had reasons.

And this time, they were sharp enough to send him running.

The house his mother had rented was small and a little sad, but she called it "cozy." She tried to smile when she handed him the key to his room, but her eyes didn’t quite match it.

He dropped his bags and lay down without unpacking. The mountains outside his window looked like sleeping giants, the trees like soldiers standing guard. It was so quiet, he could hear his own breathing.

That night, he dreamed.

He was standing in the forest, barefoot. The moonlight was silver and cold. Wind slipped through the trees like a voice — not quite words, but almost. He turned slowly, and there — between two massive trunks — stood a boy. Pale skin, wild curls, paint-streaked hands.

The boy lifted a finger to his lips.

Don’t speak.

Then he smiled.

Noah woke up with his heart beating too loud in his chest. He sat up, rubbing his face.

“What the hell…”

🌙 Two days later

He followed his mom to the town market, earbuds in, hoodie up. Everything here smelled like pine needles and old wood. As she browsed vegetables, Noah wandered toward the local art stall.

Most of the paintings were peaceful scenes of cabins, lakes, and wildlife — but one caught him completely off guard.

A forest.

Moonlight.

A boy in the trees with paint-streaked fingers.

His smile frozen in brushstrokes.

Noah's stomach flipped.

It was his dream. Every detail. Exactly.

His fingers trembled as he turned the canvas over. A small signature in the corner:

E.V.

He looked up, scanning the stalls.

“Who painted this?” he asked the old woman running the booth.

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, that one? Eli Voss. Quiet boy. Lives on the edge of town, near the forest.”