The forest whispers everything it has heard. Anyone who makes a promise beneath its canopy hears it repeated whenever leaves stir. Lovers vow forever; the trees murmur "forever" with every breeze and storm. Children swear to never tell; cicadas chant their secrets in summer. Mira and Tomas exchange vows there, the forest becoming their witness. Years later, when Tomas plans to leave, the leaves remind him, "I will stay. I will grow roots with you." He pretends not to hear. Mira walks alone among trunks that know her better than she knows herself. She asks if promises can expire. Branches crackle, replaying an older vow: her father's voice promising to return, a promise he broke. The forest is a ledger without mercy.
Mira gathers townspeople at dusk, inviting them to listen to their past selves. The woods hum with overlapping pledges, regrets, boasts. Some laugh, others cry. A thief hears his own whispered plan and returns stolen tools. A mayor hears her campaign promises and blushes. Tomas hears his younger courage and stops at the edge, unable to step past so many echoes. He turns back. Winter mutes the forest; snow blankets the whispers. Mira uses the quiet to make a new vow, whispered to bare branches: "I will forgive myself for changing." In spring, the forest repeats it gently over every fresh leaf, proof that promises can evolve when spoken again with different intent. The trees do not judge content, only volume; they remember so humans do not have to carry every word alone.
As years pass, the echoes layer like rings. Children born after the first vows start playing games, trying to guess whose promise belongs to whom. The town adds a "quiet hour" where no new promises are allowed, giving the forest a rest. Researchers visit with recording equipment, leaving puzzled by voices they cannot trace to any living throat. Mira plants saplings from the forest in her yard, hoping to dilute the ledger. The saplings whisper too, faintly. Tomas returns often, sitting beneath their branches, letting old words wash over him until he finds new ones: "I am sorry." The leaves repeat that as well, softer each year.