What the Pines Remember by Zainab Khamis

Image by Stefan Cosma on Unsplash

They told me not to go alone. The locals at the diner leaned in when I asked about the trail. Old woods, they said. Best left quiet.

But I am not a believer in ghost stories, and my grief needed silence. My sister had loved hiking—she died in a hospital bed, sterile and still. I wanted to give her something better. I brought her ashes in a tin and took the path marked by stone and moss.

The forest greeted me with stillness, and for a while, that was enough. My boots softened into the dirt, birds muttered in the canopy, and I whispered my sister's name as I scattered ashes beneath a red pine that looked a thousand years old.

Then I turned to leave.

And the path was gone.

Not overgrown. Gone. The stones I would step over—vanished. The way I came curled behind me like a fern folding into itself. The sun was dipping fast, and the trees had shifted. Taller now. Closer.

I did not panic. I had a compass. I had done this before.

But the compass spun. The needle twitched like it was afraid to choose. My phone flickered dead in my hand.

When I started walking, the forest seemed to inhale. Every step deeper felt like sinking. The birds no longer muttered, and the pines stopped rustling. There was a sound behind me, soft as fur, quick as breath, but when I turned, nothing moved.

That night, I made camp without fire.

I dreamed of my sister. Only her skin was bark, and her eyes were hollow knots, and said, I am still here, you know. I never left.
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When I woke, pine needles were on my pillow that had not been there before.

On the second day, I tried to mark my trail. I carved notches into trunks, broke small branches, and laid out stones. But the forest closed them behind me. Trees stood whole again when I looked back. My trail was being swallowed.

The sound returned that night—closer. I stayed awake, listening to my breath and the sound of something else breathing.

By the third day, my mind was cracking. I could not tell if the whispers were wind or voices. I saw faces in the bark. I heard my name in the crunch of leaves. Leila, they said: my sister's voice. Leila, stay.

When I ran, the forest ran with me. Trees blurred. The light filtered strangely, like through stained glass. I tripped. Cut my knee. When I stood, I was back at the red pine.

The ashes were gone.

In their place was a hollow in the earth, pulsing gently—like a heartbeat.

I understood then.

The forest remembered her. It had taken her. It was offering me the same mercy.

I knelt. The earth was warm.

I do not remember lying down, only the softness of moss and the weight of pine needles falling like snow. I felt bark bloom along my skin, roots threading through my veins. I felt her beside me in soil, in sap, in song.

We are quiet now, but we are not gone.

We listen when you enter. We bend the trees. We hide your path. And if your grief hums like ours once did, we might call you closer.

We are what the pines remember.​

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Zainab Khamis is a Bahraini writer whose work has appeared in the Inlandia Institute, Vermilion, and The Progenitor Art & Literary Journal. She won first place in Bahrain’s Young Authors Contest (2024) and was recognized by The New York Times “My List” contest. Her writing explores identity, memory, and belonging.