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Weekly Contest #308
They say the old silk cotton tree in Crabwood Creek can swallow souls. That its roots drink more than water. That sometimes, late at night, you can hear drumming from its trunk—low, deep, and filled with a grief older than the earth it grew from. Anjali had never believed any of it. Not until the tree started whispering her grandmother’s name. Anjali arrived in Guyana with her mother’s ashes in a brass urn and a suitcase full of guilt. The sun hit different here. It didn’t just warm; it clung—dense and golden, as if memory itself had weight...
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