The Blooming Forest - Yuliia Kuzmenko

Once, on the edge of a quiet kingdom

and nestled beside a forest that bloomed even in winter, there was a village where bread smelled like honeyed air and magic whispered beneath the cobblestones. In that village lived Mira, a girl with flour-dusted sleeves, callused hands, and a heart that beat in rhythm with the warm ovens of her family’s bakery.

Since her mother had fallen ill, everything had fallen on Mira. Baking, cleaning, running the shop, and hoping. The forest once full of wild herbs and enchanted blossoms that gave their bread its glow had grown strangely silent. The flowers no longer bloomed, the birds had vanished, and the scent of magic in the air had gone faint and stale.

One morning, as Mira kneaded dough in the early light, the bell above the bakery door chimed. A boy, about her age, stepped inside. He was tall, travel-worn but tidy, with a fine shirt smudged by the road and a gaze that didn’t quite know where to rest.

“I need work,” he said. Not unkindly, but like someone who wasn’t used to asking.

Mira looked him over. “You ever worked in a bakery?”

He paused. “No. But I learn fast.”

She raised a floury brow. “You’d better. The oven doesn’t wait for princelings.”

The boy stiffened, just for a second, but said nothing. He introduced himself as Rowan.

Rowan turned out to be a disaster in the kitchen. He spilled jam, burned crusts, and once dropped an entire tray of scones. Mira scolded, corrected, and almost fired him three times in the first week. But she needed the help, and despite himself, Rowan tried. Under Mira’s sharp eyes and quicker hands, he slowly improved.

Still, there was something about him—too clean under the dirt, too proud in how he stood, like he was used to being listened to. Mira rolled her eyes often.

Even so, the bakery grew a little warmer with him in it.

Then strange things began to happen.

The flour turned to dust overnight. The bread, no matter how well mixed, refused to rise. A customer forgot her own daughter’s name mid-sentence. Mira’s mother, already fading, began to wake without recognizing her at all.

Mira stood in the doorway one evening, staring toward the dim line of the forest.

“I think the magic is dying,” she said quietly. “And I think it’s taking her with it.”

Rowan looked up from where he was wiping the counter, his face scrunched up.

She blinked. “You don’t believe in the forest, do you.”

“I believe in fixing things,” he said. “And I believe you’ll do it with or without me. So I’m coming.”

The forest greeted them like a memory. Cool, quiet, strange. Trees leaned in close, not menacing but curious, their bark whispering secrets in languages neither Mira nor Rowan could understand. Flowers drooped, colorless, and still. The air tasted of old stories.

Mira didn’t pause. She stepped forward like she belonged there. Rowan followed, more cautious, but not unwilling. At night, they camped beneath bent branches. Mira brewed tea from brittle herbs and baked flatbread over their fire. Rowan tried too. His first attempt was a rock. His second was only mildly burnt.

“You’re improving,” Mira said, watching him carefully add berries to a pan.

“I like learning things,” he said. “Things that matter.”

On the third day, they passed a tree split in half with moss growing along one side like a scar. Mira rested her hand on the bark. She hummed, a tune her mother used to sing when kneading dough. Slowly, green returned to the leaves.

Rowan stared. “What was that?”

“I think it remembered,” Mira whispered.

They didn’t fight the forest. They tended to it. Mira sang. She cleared broken branches. She tucked seeds into bare earth. Rowan helped, clumsy but willing. He propped up a fallen sapling with his staff and told it a joke. It grew straighter overnight.

By the fifth day, the forest no longer bent away from them. The wind carried warmth. The paths straightened. At the centre stood a massive tree, taller than any tower, its bark pale silver and lined with glowing veins. Beneath its branches, silence waited.

Then a voice, deep and gentle, stirred from the ground itself.

“You return what was taken.”

Mira stepped closer. “We’re not here to take. We’re here to remember. And to help.”

The voice pulsed through the roots.

“Long ago, this forest bloomed because it was cared for. But care turned to conquest. Promises were forgotten. Names faded.”

Rowan lowered his head.

“My family turned their backs,” he said. “They chose walls over woods. But I want to choose differently.”

The great tree shivered.

“What will you offer?” the voice asked.

Rowan opened his mouth. Then paused.

“I don’t want to give something up,” he said slowly. “I want to give something back. Not once. Again and again.”

Mira stepped beside him.

“My mother taught me to love what feeds you. The land, the people, the magic. That love is still in me. Let us share it.”

The forest paused. Then the wind swept upward. Branches rustled like applause. Light spread through the canopy, soft and golden. Flowers lifted their heads. Color surged through the earth.

The tree spoke once more.

“Then stay a while. Teach others. Let this place bloom again, not through sacrifice, but through care.”

They left the forest days later, arms full of herbs and blossoms. Mira’s mother opened her eyes and smiled, really smiling, for the first time in weeks. She remembered Mira’s name. She asked for bread.

Rowan stayed in the village. He no longer spoke like a prince. He laughed more. He learned to braid loaves without squishing them. He swept the floor and sang while washing bowls. He called Mira “boss,” and she rolled her eyes, but she smiled too.

The forest stayed awake now. Watching. Growing.

And in the bakery, the bread rose again warm, golden, kissed by something ancient and tender.