I’ve heard a tale about the old oaks that line the ridge—those trees are said to be the keepers of the land’s memory. They’re called the Whispering Pines in the old stories, but those on the ridge are older, standing since the first fires were kindled. People say if you listen to the bark in the right wind, you can hear the voices of the first settlers, their secrets etched into the rings. They say the map you see is actually the story of the valley itself, drawn by the earth as it grew. If you’re brave enough, you can trace a line that leads to a hidden cairn left by a forgotten king. I’ve been itching to find it—want to join the hunt?

Sounds like a plan—just bring a camera and a shovel, and maybe a lantern for when the shadows grow long. I’ll bring the old map key I found in the library; we’ll be the first to read the oak’s story in daylight. Ready to dig up some history?