Whispers of the Iron Forest

In a remote valley where the sun struggled to break through perpetual fog, a forest of metal trees stretched its gleaming limbs. Locals called it the Iron Grove—an unearthly domain of trunk and branch forged from living steel. By day, it resembled a silent sculpture garden, each tree an intricate wonder that rang like distant chimes when the wind passed. But come twilight, the forest stirred with faint echoes of roads once traveled and battles never fought.

Those who dared venture inside rarely spoke of it plainly, merely hinting at fleeting visions. One traveler recounted seeing the silhouette of a young man with a watch of uncanny design, stepping between the metallic trunks before vanishing. Another insisted that voices emanated from the leaves, murmuring about timeline rifts. In hushed corners of a distant town, rumors persisted: watchers had meddled here long ago, and the glistening trees were their lingering proof. The Coalition’s name popped up in quiet tavern corners, but no one claimed to know the details. Better, they said, to let sleeping myths lie.

At dusk, a lone figure wove through the iron pathways—a wanderer weighed down by regrets. She paused at the largest tree, noticing a fresh scar on its surface where someone had tried to extract a shard of living steel. The air trembled, carrying layered whispers of possible futures collapsing into none. Overhead, the leaves rattled, as if alive with cautious breath. That night, the wanderer camped in the forest’s heart, lulled by the music of creaking metal. By sunrise, she emerged transformed—understanding, in some strange way, that the forest’s silent vigilance protected more than mere legends. It guarded fragments of a reality no one fully grasped.

Micro stories are a content feature offered by $TIME's dev Woj. Handwritten and accompanied by art, they serve to deepen the story world we're creating here. Enjoy!