Whispers Among the Trees

Sunny was seventy years old and without a home. The world was harsh, but the Forest offered her food, shelter, and a semblance of safety. The Forest of Memory had a fence and a groundskeeper to protect it since it became a carbon-sequestration tract. Sunny, careful and unassuming, blended in with the mourners who visited the trees to remember their loved ones.

Sunny found comfort in the company of the departed. Today, she gently tapped on the brass plaque attached to a beech tree, which read, "Alfonse Remi, 1954—2031." From the plaque emerged a shimmering web of light, and Alfonse appeared.

Alfonse was captured in his prime, his kind eyes and gold chain striking against his serene demeanor. The physical chain was wrapped around the plaque, anchored by a small gold cross. His family had the fortune of time to create such a detailed hologram before he succumbed to a slow-killing cancer. Those who lost loved ones suddenly had to settle for grainy images and videos.

This Forest was a luxury for the wealthy; the less fortunate ended up in unmarked plots in commercial orchards.

“How has your day been, Alfonse?” Sunny asked.

“The best day of my life,” Alfonse began. “I was walking to the market in Bolinao before the seas rose. I was going to surprise Ana with breakfast. The fruits glowed in the sunlight, and I laughed with joy. Later, Ana and I rode bicycles by the sea.”

“I’m doing well too,” Sunny replied. “I drank from the fountain, used the bathroom, and ate that peach I was saving. It’s nice having someone to talk to, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry,” Alfonse said. “I don’t understand the question.”

“Oh, your company really invested in your hologram, didn’t they? Usually, that message is an error. Don’t worry, I won’t keep you long. Just curious, when was the last time your grandchildren visited? I’ve been here ten years and never seen them.”

“My family is my love,” Alfonse said, gesturing with hands that cast no shadow. “Julia, Nellie, Christophe, Sebastian—I have messages for you. If you let the plaque scan your eye.”

Sunny giggled. “That’s personal. We only met last week.”

Alfonse blinked, uncomprehending. Sunny curtsied slightly. “Good talking to you,” she said.

Two trees away, Gilda, twenty years old, stared at Sunny through bold makeup and a rashy complexion. “Ay, hija,” Sunny said, “What happened to you?”

“The tumors,” Gilda said, “I’d blast them with a flamethrower if I could. But the sense of shortened time, the intensity of living—not a day wasted.”

“You should have grown old,” Sunny said. “Married, divorced, fought custody battles. It’s what we all do.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Gilda said. “Don’t give Marcus a hard time. He couldn’t bear it. I hope he’s happy.”

“He wasn’t good enough for you,” Sunny muttered.

Sunny visited three more holograms, enjoying the groundskeeper’s day off. She could speak to all the dead if she wanted.

“But that’s enough,” she said, feeling fatigue in her feet. The forest floor was uneven, despite the even layer of the deceased beneath.

She wandered to a secluded part of the wood near the chain-link fence separating the Forest of Memory from a logging stand. Sitting under an elm, she removed her shoes and wiggled her toes in the moss.

She noticed the fence was loose at the bottom, as if pried open. The groundskeeper would eventually fix it.

A caramel-colored mushroom caught her eye. She plucked it and sniffed its earthy scent.

Suddenly, a drone flew overhead. Her niece’s daughter had played with one until it crashed into the sea, never to work again.

The drone’s buzz persisted. Soon, a young man crept out of the logging stand, carrying a crowbar and a garbage bag. He crawled through the fence and darted past Sunny, heading toward the memory trees.

Sunny curled her feet under herself, hoping to blend into the surroundings.

From various parts of the Forest, she heard the confused noise of disturbed holograms.

When the man returned, his bag was full and clinking, and a gold cross swung from his wrist. He pushed the bag under the fence and turned to look at Sunny.

“No,” she pleaded, but his eyes were desperate and unyielding.

The crowbar arced through the air. It was quick. There wasn’t much blood.

When they found her after the theft of plaques and projectors, family members reluctantly gathered enough money to inter Sunny in A-294. No photo or hologram was provided.

As the Forest of Memory was restored and the fence reinforced, Sunny sank into the moss, forgotten by all.