Stories From The Hollow Tree

Amber Jensen
  • 5.0 (1)
  • Stories for Kids
  • Updated Daily

Where strange stories nest and grow. Modern folklore and shadow-play for the wild-hearted young. For the ones who ask hard questions and hear trees speak back. thehollowtree.substack.com

  1. Ep 25: When No One Left

    Apr 21

    Ep 25: When No One Left

    🌲 When No One Left A story for the ones who don’t need to go anywhere just yet 🕯️ Have you ever found a place… where nothing needed you to hurry? Where the ground felt soft enoughto hold you… and the air didn’t ask you to be anything differentthan what you already are? 🌿 Welcome to The Hollow Tree Where strange stories nest and grow… …and sometimes… where a story doesn’t need to go anywhere at all. This is a story for the ones who are a little tired. The ones who have been moving, and thinking, and feeling… for a long while. Today’s story is not about finding something. Or fixing something. Or becoming something new. It’s about staying. Let’s begin. 🍃 Forest Friend Whisper [Chime] “Not everything in the forest grows by reaching. Some things growby resting long enoughto remember they were already part of it.” [Chime] 🌲 When No One Left A story for the ones who don’t need to go anywhere just yet And now, the tale. Not far from the Hollow Tree— in a place where the moss grows thick enoughto remember every footstep that ever softened upon it— a child once cameand did not leave. It wasn’t because they were lost. And it wasn’t because they were afraid. It was because, for the first time in a long while… nothing was asking them to go. So they didn’t. They lay down instead. The moss welcomed them the way moss always does— without sound,without shift,without needing to be noticed to do its work. Above them, the branches of the Hollow Tree stretched wide, not reaching, not holding— just… being. Light moved slowly through the canopy. Not in a hurry. Not trying to become anything else. The child watched it. They didn’t wonder what it meant. They didn’t ask what would happen next. They just… watched. And somewhere nearby— a Bramblekin paused in its careful tending. Not because it needed to. But because it noticed something unusual. Stillnessthat wasn’t hiding. A Candeling passed at the edge of sight— a small, flickering presence— and for once, it did not dim or dart away. It lingered. Just long enoughto warm the air slightlybefore moving on. Beneath the moss, something older shifted— not waking, not sleeping— just… aware. And the Mosslings— oh, the Mosslings— they sighed. Not loudly. Not in a way anyone could hear with ears. But in the way the ground softenswhen something heavy is finally set down. The child did not see all of this. They did not need to. Because what they felt instead was this: That the ground held them. That the air made space for them. That nothing— not one thing— was asking them to become anything elsein that moment. Time moved. Of course it did. But not in the way it usually does. It stretched. Softened. Lost its edges. It became something like sunlight on closed eyes— present, warm, and in no hurry to end. The child could have stood. Could have left. Could have followed the path backto where things had namesand schedulesand expectations. But they didn’t. Not yet. Instead, they turned their face slightly toward the light. Let their hand rest deeper into the moss. Listened to the quiet work of the forest continuing around them. And understood something— not in words, not in thoughts— but in the slow, steady rhythm of their breath: That even when nothing is happening… everything is still here. Still growing. Still shifting. Still becoming. Just… softly. And so the child stayed. Not forever. But long enoughto rememberwhat it feels liketo belongwithout needing to prove it. 🌿 If you ever find a placewhere nothing is asking anything of you… you can stay there a while. The world will wait. 🍃🕯️ To the listeners.To the whisper-hearers.To the ones who notice before they understand: We see you.We thank you.We will keep writing. Thank you for listening to The Hollow Tree. The forest is still here. Just… growing quietly for a little while. Before we go today… there’s something small I want to share with you. The Hollow Tree isn’t going quiet. And it isn’t going anywhere. But just like the forest does— we are shifting. The stories are softening for a little while. Stretching their roots. Taking a slow breath between seasons. That doesn’t mean the magic has stopped. It just means it’s changing shape. So if things feel a little quieter here for a bit… that’s on purpose. That’s part of the story too. And when the next stories arrive— they’ll be ready. And so will we. Thank you for listening to The Hollow Tree. This is just the beginning,and you are always welcome to return—whenever you’re ready for another story. You can find more tales and behind-the-scenes magic at thehollowtree.substack.com, Instagram @TheHollowTreeStories, and remember to follow along on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, and soon YouTube. Until next time—may the path be soft,and the whisper of the forest stay with you. 🍃🕯️ —Written and performed by Amber Jensen and the voices of The Hollow Tree If this story stirred something in you…You can keep The Hollow Tree lit by subscribing, sharing it with someone who listens like you do, or leaving a kind note. Everything here is offered with care.And every listen, every share, every whisper down the line—it matters. 🌲 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thehollowtree.substack.com

    9 min
  2. Ep 24: The Tree That Let Something Fall

    Apr 17

    Ep 24: The Tree That Let Something Fall

    🌿 The Tree That Let Something Fall A Hollow Tree myth for the ones who notice when something changes… before anyone says it out loud. Have you ever noticed… how some things fall awaybefore anything new appears? Welcome to The Hollow Tree This is a story for the children who feel when something is shifting—even if no one else has named it yet. For the ones who notice when the air changes,when the light feels different,when something familiar grows just a little quieter. Let’s begin. 🍃 Forest Friend Whisper [Chime] “There are trees that bloom loudly—petals and color and sweet-smelling air. And there are trees that bloom softly—so softly that most people miss it. But the quiet bloomers… are often the ones that feed the forest first.” [Chime] 🌲 The Tree That Let Something Fall A Hollow Tree myth for the ones who notice when something changes… before anyone says it out loud. And now, the tale. Not far from the Hollow Tree,just beyond where the moss grows thickestand the light turns a softer kind of gold, there stands a tree most people forget to look at. It does not grow tall in a hurry.It does not spread wide like the others. It leans. Just slightly. As if it has learnedthat not everything needs to reach for the skyto belong. For most of the year,it looks like any other quiet tree. Branches.Bark.Nothing to remark on. But once—just once each year— something happens. Before the leaves return,before the forest feels fully awake… the tree begins to soften. Small, pale shapes appear along its branches. Not leaves. Not flowers. Something in-between. Soft as breath.Light as thought.Easy to miss if you’re not looking closely. And then… they transform. stamens and nectar appear from the softness. then, after it seems they’ve only just arrived, they fall. Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just… one by one. Drifting down onto the moss. Settling into the quiet places. Most people never notice. They walk past and say, “This tree hasn’t bloomed yet.” But the forest knows better. Because while those soft almost blossoms fall… something else is happening. Something quieter. A child named Soren noticed. He had come to the forest that daybecause something felt different. He couldn’t say what. Nothing was wrong. Nothing had changed in any obvious way. And still— something had shifted. So he walked. Not looking for anything in particular. Just… listening with his feet. That’s when he saw the tree. At first, he thought nothing of it. Until something brushed his sleeve. He looked down. A small, pale tuft rested against his arm. He picked it up. It was softer than it should be. Warmer than the air around it. And just for a moment— it felt like holding somethingthat had already finished what it came to do. Soren looked up. More of them were falling. Not quickly. Not heavily. Just… steadily. “Are you losing something?” he asked the tree. The tree did not answer. But the wind shifted gently through its branches. And another soft blossom let go. Soren watched it fall. It didn’t look like something being lost. It looked like something being… released. He sat down on the moss. For a while, he didn’t think. Didn’t wonder. Didn’t try to understand. He just watched. And slowly— the feeling he had carried into the forest began to change. Not disappear. Not resolve. Just… settle. Like whatever had been shiftingdidn’t need to be solved. Only noticed. After a while, the tree grew still again. No more blossoms fell. Its branches looked almost bare. Quiet. Waiting. Soren stood. “Now you look empty,” he said. The wind moved once more— not through the branches this time, but around him. And though the tree said nothing… Soren understood something anyway. Not in words. But in the way his shoulders felt lighter. In the way the forest didn’t seem so uncertain anymore. Emptywas not the right word. Something had ended. Yes. But not in a way that meant nothing was coming next. Soren brushed the soft blossoms from his sleeve. He didn’t take one with him. It didn’t feel like something meant to be kept. Only something meant to be seen. As he walked back toward the Hollow Tree, the forest felt the same as it had before. And also… not the same at all. Behind him, the quiet tree stood still. Its branches bare for now. But deep inside— where no one could see— something newhad already begun. 🌲 If something feels like it’s changing… before you know what comes next— you might just be standingin a moment like this. Where something smallhas finished… so something elsecan begin. To the listeners.To the whisper-hearers.To the ones who notice before they understand: We see you.We thank you.We will keep writing. Thank you for listening to The Hollow Tree. The forest is still here. Just… growing quietly for a little while. Before we go today… there’s something small I want to share with you. The Hollow Tree isn’t going quiet. And it isn’t going anywhere. But just like the forest does— we are shifting. The stories are softening for a little while. Stretching their roots. Taking a slow breath between seasons. That doesn’t mean the magic has stopped. It just means it’s changing shape. So if things feel a little quieter here for a bit… that’s on purpose. That’s part of the story too. And when the next stories arrive— they’ll be ready. And so will we. Until then… you’re always welcome here. 🍃🕯️ —Written and performed by Amber Jensen and the voices of The Hollow Tree If this story stirred something in you…You can keep The Hollow Tree lit by subscribing, sharing it with someone who listens like you do, or leaving a kind note. Everything here is offered with care.And every listen, every share, every whisper down the line—it matters. 🌲 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thehollowtree.substack.com

    11 min
  3. Ep 23: The Button Tree

    Apr 14

    Ep 23: The Button Tree

    🌲 The Button Tree A Hollow Tree myth for the ones who lose small things… and find something more. Welcome to The Hollow Tree This is a story for the children who notice when something small goes missing—and feel it more than anyone expects. For the ones who check their pockets twice,who remember what used to be there,and who wonder if small things matter more than they’re told. Let’s begin. 🍃 Forest Friend Whisper [Chime] “There are trees that grow leaves.Trees that grow fruit.And trees that grow stories. But there is one tree that keeps what the world forgets—and gives back something that fits a little better.” [Chime] 🌲 The Button Tree A Hollow Tree myth for the ones who lose small things… and find something more. At the edge of the path,just before the bramble gets boldand the mushrooms start keeping secrets,there is a tree. It’s taller than it should be.And older than it looks. Its bark twists in quiet spirals,and its roots curl just above the groundlike they’re listening for footsteps. And if you don’t know where to find it… that’s because you’re not meant to find it. Yet. It’s calledthe Button Tree. Not because it grows buttons. But because it keeps them. You see, sometimes buttons fall. Off jackets.Off bags.Off sleeves that have been tugged just a little too many times. And sometimes… off hearts, too. Small things. Easy to miss. Easy to say, “It’s just a button.” But the Button Tree notices. It hums when a button goes missing. Not loudly.Not sadly. Just a little hum. Like a thread remembering where it used to belong. If you were very quiet—and very close— you might hear it. A soft, steady sound,like something being heldinstead of lost. And when the Button Tree hums,the forest listens. The moss softens. The wind slows down. Even the mushrooms—who keep more secrets than most—tilt just slightly,as if to make space. Because something smallis on its way. Now, not everyone who loses a buttonfinds the tree. Some people rush. Some people shrug. Some people say, “It didn’t matter anyway.” And the Button Tree lets them pass. But sometimes… a child notices. A child named Luma did. She stood at the edge of the path,coat flapping open where a button had once been. She had checked her pockets.Her sleeves.The ground behind her. Twice. “It was right here,” she said quietly,touching the loose thread. The wind didn’t answer. But it shifted. Just a little. And Luma, who was very good at noticing small things,felt it. Not a direction. Not a voice. Just a feeling that said: this way, maybe. So she followed. Past the place where the path narrows. Past the bramble that leans in a little too close. Past the mushrooms, who watched without blinking. Until she reached the tree. It didn’t shine. It didn’t glow. It didn’t look magical at all. It just… waited. Luma stepped closer. And then she heard it. A hum. Soft. Steady. Familiar in a way she couldn’t explain. She looked down. Tucked between bark and shadow,pressed into a patch of soft green moss,resting right where her eyes naturally landed— was a button. Not the one she lost. This one was different. A little smoother.A little warmer. It caught the light in a way that made it seemalmost like it was listening back. Luma picked it up. It fit perfectly in her palm. And though the air was still cool with the last breath of winter… the button was warm. Not from her hand. Warm on its own. She turned it over once. Twice. “It’s not mine,” she said softly. The tree didn’t answer. But the hum shifted. Just slightly. Not louder. Not stronger. Just… closer. Luma looked down at her coat. At the place where something had been missing. At the small spacethat had felt just a little bit wrong all day. And then back at the button in her hand. “It could be,” she said. That night, she sewed it on. Not perfectly. The thread looped once where it shouldn’t have. The knot was a little crooked. But the button held. And when she pressed her fingers against it— she felt it. Not magic. Not a spell. Just… knowing. Like something had settled. Like a small space she hadn’t been able to namehad quietly filled in. The next morning, when she stepped outside,the air felt different. Not warmer. Not brighter. Just… open. Like the story she was about to walk intohad been waiting for her to be ready. And the Button Tree? It stood where it always had. Listening. Humming. Keeping what was lostuntil it could be returnedin a way that fit. And if you ever whisper to the tree— “I didn’t mean to lose it…” The wind might shiftjust enoughto carry something back. Not quite words. Not quite sound. But something like: “You didn’t lose it. It loosened. And now— you’re readyfor what comes next.” If a button goes missing… don’t rush to replace it. Sometimes,there is a placewhere small things gobefore they return. And sometimes… they come backjust a little more yoursthan before. To the listeners.To the whisper-hearers.To the ones who hold story before it has shape: We see you.We thank you.We will keep writing. Thank you for listening to The Hollow Tree. This is just the beginning,and you are always welcome to return—whenever you’re ready for another story. You can find more tales and behind-the-scenes magic at thehollowtree.substack.com, Instagram @TheHollowTreeStories, and remember to follow along on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, and soon YouTube. Until next time—may the path be soft,and the whisper of the forest stay with you. 🍃🕯️ —Written and performed by Amber Jensen and the voices of The Hollow Tree If this story stirred something in you…You can keep The Hollow Tree lit by subscribing, sharing it with someone who listens like you do, or leaving a kind note. Everything here is offered with care.And every listen, every share, every whisper down the line—it matters. 🌲 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thehollowtree.substack.com

    10 min
  4. Ep 22: The Flower That Opened When It Was Ready

    Apr 10

    Ep 22: The Flower That Opened When It Was Ready

    Welcome to The Hollow Tree. This is a story for the children who sometimes feel a quiet tug inside that says, “Not yet.” Let’s begin. 🍃 Forest Friend Whisper [Chime] “In the meadow beyond the Hollow Tree grows a flower that no one has ever managed to open. Not by pulling. Not by asking loudly. Only by waiting.” [Chime] 🌙 The Flower That Opened When It Was Ready A Hollow Tree myth for the children learning the shape of their own “no.” And now, the tale. Near the edge of the meadow, where the grasses grow tall enough to whisper secrets to one another, there grew a small cluster of silver flowers. Most flowers opened with the sun. These did not. They stayed closed through morning. Closed through afternoon. Closed even when the bees circled impatiently. The villagers called them stubborn. “Flowers are meant to open,” they said. “Otherwise what is the point?” Children were told not to worry about them. “Just ignore the ones that won’t bloom.” But a child named Sela noticed something. Sela liked patterns. She noticed how the silver flowers tilted slightly away from loud footsteps. How they leaned toward the quiet places between wind gusts. How they stayed tightly folded when someone bent over them too quickly. One afternoon, a group of children gathered around the flowers. “Maybe they’re broken,” someone said. Another tried gently pulling at the petals. They didn’t move. A grown-up came along and said, “Sometimes things just need encouragement.” They tapped the stem. Nothing happened. The flowers remained closed. Sela knelt down beside them. She didn’t touch them. She didn’t ask them to open. She just sat. The wind moved through the grass. The meadow softened. The other children wandered off to chase dragonflies. And in the quiet— one of the flowers unfolded. Slowly. Petal by petal. Not wide. Just enough to breathe. Sela smiled. The next day, the villagers noticed. “Why did it open for you?” they asked. Sela shrugged. “I didn’t try to make it.” The villagers frowned. “But flowers are meant to open.” Sela looked at the meadow. “Yes,” she said. “But maybe not for everyone.” That evening, more children came to sit near the flowers. Some waited. Some watched. Some learned something small and important: The flowers were not stubborn. They were careful. They opened when the wind was gentle. When footsteps slowed. When the moment felt safe. And the more the villagers understood this, the more the meadow changed. People walked softer. They stopped tugging. They stopped demanding bloom on command. And the silver flowers opened more often. Not because they were forced. But because they were respected. Near the edge of the meadow, where the grasses grow tall enough to whisper secrets to one another, there grows a small cluster of silver flowers. Sela still visits the meadow sometimes. She sits in the grass and watches the flowers choose their moment. And when someone asks her why they open when they do, she says, “Because they’re listening to themselves.” 🌿 Whisper If something inside you says, “Not yet.” That voice is not trouble. It is wisdom. And like the silver flowers, you are allowed to hear it and hold it. You’re aloud to know what feels right. To the listeners.To the whisper-hearers.To the ones who hold story before it has shape: We see you.We thank you.We will keep writing. Thank you for listening to The Hollow Tree. This is just the beginning,and you are always welcome to return—whenever you’re ready for another story. You can find more tales and behind-the-scenes magic at thehollowtree.substack.com, Instagram @TheHollowTreeStories, and remember to follow along on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, and soon YouTube. Until next time—may the path be soft,and the whisper of the forest stay with you. 🍃🕯️ —Written and performed by Amber Jensen and the voices of The Hollow Tree If this story stirred something in you…You can keep The Hollow Tree lit by subscribing, sharing it with someone who listens like you do, or leaving a kind note. Everything here is offered with care.And every listen, every share, every whisper down the line—it matters. 🌲 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thehollowtree.substack.com

    7 min
  5. Ep 21: The Button That Came Back Warm

    Apr 8

    Ep 21: The Button That Came Back Warm

    🧵 The Button That Came Back Warm A Hollow Tree myth for the ones who notice when small things move. Have you ever lost something small… and felt like it mattered more than it should? Welcome to The Hollow Tree Where strange stories nest and grow… …and sometimes, the smallest thingsshift just enough to be found again. Let’s begin. 🧵 The Button That Came Back Warm A Hollow Tree myth for the ones who notice when small things move. There are creatures who do not live in trees. Not in roots.Not in branches. They live in smaller places. In hems.In pockets.In the quiet corners of things that are almost held together. They are called the Buttonkin. No one sees them directly. Not because they hide— but because they are very, very goodat arriving in the momentsomething loosens. The Buttonkin do not take things. Not really. They only gather what has already begun to slip. A thread that has come undone.A button hanging by one quiet loop.A small thing that no longer knowsif it is meant to stay. And when they find such a thing… they carry it. Not far. Just far enough. One early spring morning,when the ground was soft but the air still held a little winter,a child named Mara found a button in her pocket. She didn’t remember putting it there. It was smooth.Round.A little worn at the edges. She turned it over in her fingers. It felt… warm. Not from her hand. It had been warm before she touched it. “That’s strange,” she said softly. Mara checked her coat. All the buttons were there. She checked her sleeves. Still fastened. She checked her bag. Nothing missing. And yet— the button remained. She carried it with her that day. Through the quiet places.Through the in-between hours.Through the small moments that didn’t ask to be noticed. Every now and then, she would reach into her pocketjust to feel it again. Still warm. Still there. By afternoon, she began to notice something else. Small things seemed… different. A loose thread on her sleevethat she could have sworn had been there for days— was gone. A place in her pocket that always felt slightly torn— felt smooth. Even the way her coat sat on her shouldersfelt… settled. Not tighter. Not newer. Just… right. Mara stopped walking. She reached into her pocket again. The button rested in her palm,quiet and steady. And for just a moment— she had the strangest feeling. Not that she had found something. But that something had beenreturned to her differently. Not taken. Not replaced. Just… shifted. As if whatever had been loosehad been noticed. And gently… tended. Mara looked down at the button. “Where did you come from?” she asked. The wind moved slightly at her back. Not an answer. But not nothing, either. She slipped the button back into her pocket. That night, she placed it on her windowsill. The moonlight touched it. And for just a second— only a second— it seemed to catch the lightin a way that didn’t quite belong to this world. Then it was just a button again. Morning came. The button was still there. Cool now. Ordinary. But Mara noticed something as she picked it up. Even without the warmth… it still felt like it belonged to her. Not because it had before. But because it had beengiven back. Somewhere, in the quiet seams of the world,the Buttonkin moved along their careful paths. Gathering what loosened.Returning what mattered.Leaving things just a little more wholethan they had found them. And if you ever lose something small— something that didn’t seem importantuntil it was gone— and then find it againwhere you weren’t looking… you might pause. Just for a moment. And wonderif it had been somewhereit needed to be. before finding its wayback to you. If something small goes missing… don’t rush to replace it. Sometimes,it’s just being carriedfor a little while. To the listeners.To the whisper-hearers.To the ones who hold story before it has shape: We see you.We thank you.We will keep writing. Thank you for listening to The Hollow Tree. This is just the beginning,and you are always welcome to return—whenever you’re ready for another story. You can find more tales and behind-the-scenes magic at thehollowtree.substack.com, Instagram @TheHollowTreeStories, and remember to follow along on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, and soon YouTube. Until next time—may the path be soft,and the whisper of the forest stay with you. 🍃🕯️ —Written and performed by Amber Jensen and the voices of The Hollow Tree If this story stirred something in you…You can keep The Hollow Tree lit by subscribing, sharing it with someone who listens like you do, or leaving a kind note. Everything here is offered with care.And every listen, every share, every whisper down the line—it matters. 🌲 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thehollowtree.substack.com

    9 min
  6. Ep 20: The Stone That Knew Its Place

    Apr 2

    Ep 20: The Stone That Knew Its Place

    🪨 The Stone That Knew Its Place A Myth for the Children Who Carry the Not-Knowing Sometimes the forest gets loud.Not scary loud. Just… life loud.And when that happens, the stories don’t disappear.They wait and arrive when things settle. Welcome to The Hollow Tree. This is a story for the children who carry something they cannot quite name.For the ones who feel a pull inside their chestand aren’t sure whether it means stay… or go. Let’s begin. 🍃 Forest Friend Whisper [Chime] “At the far edge of the garden, where the fence leans and the blackberries tangle on purpose, there is a path you can only see when you stop trying to find it.” [Chime] 🪨 The Stone That Knew Its Place A Myth for the Children Who Carry the Not-Knowing And now, the tale. At the far edge of the garden,where the fence leaned just slightlyand the blackberries were allowed to tangle as they pleased,there was a path only visibleif you were not in a hurry. The path led to the Hollow Tree. One afternoon, when the air felt thick —like it was holding a thought it couldn’t quite finish —a child named Elio came walking down that pathwith both hands wrapped around a smooth gray stone. The stone was not large.It fit neatly in his palms. But Elio held itthe way some children hold glass. Behind him came Juniper,stepping only on the flattest parts of the earth.Avoiding cracks.Avoiding roots. “You’re holding it tight,” Juniper said quietly. “It keeps changing,” Elio replied. They reached the Hollow Tree.Moss stitched its north side.The bark held the day’s warmth like a pocket. Elio stepped inside the hollowand sat cross-legged. Juniper sat near the entrance,where the light made a soft doorway. “What changes?” Juniper asked. Elio turned the stone over. “Where it belongs.” Juniper waited. The tree did not rush him either. “Sometimes it feels like it belongs in my pocket,” Elio said.“Sometimes it belongs in the river.Sometimes I think I should throw it as far as I can.” Juniper considered this carefully. “Does it say?” she asked. Elio shook his head. “It doesn’t talk.It just… pulls.” The wind moved through the meadow beyond the tree.It bent the grassesand let them rise again. Juniper leaned back against the inner wood. “When things pull,” she said slowly,“I try setting them down.” Elio looked at the stone.His fingers had left faint warmth on its surface. He placed it on the floor of the hollow. Nothing happened. The tree did not glow.The ground did not shift.The stone did not roll. It simply rested. Elio waited. “Is it different?” Juniper asked. Elio tilted his head. “It’s quieter,” he said.“When it’s not in my hands.” Juniper nodded. The afternoon insects began their small ticking songs.Somewhere beyond the blackberries,a crow called once… then again…as if checking the shape of the air. Elio watched the stone. “Sometimes,” he said,“I think it’s the feeling of not knowing where I go next.” Juniper traced a line in the dust with her finger. “Next doesn’t always know either,” she said. Elio gave a small half-smile. The light shifted at the mouth of the hollow.The sun had lowered just enoughto turn everything honey-soft. After a while, Elio picked the stone up again. He held it more loosely this time. “It’s not pulling as hard,” he said. Juniper stoodand stepped just outside the hollow.She looked toward the narrow streamthat ran beyond the meadow. “We could walk it there,” she offered.“Not to throw.Just to visit.” Elio nodded. They walked the thin path,side by side but not touching. The stone rested calmlyin Elio’s open palm. When they reached the stream,the water moved around pebbles and stickswith patient sound. Not loud.Not urgent.Just moving. Elio crouched at the bank. He dipped the stone into the water. Cold slid over his fingers.The stone darkened. He did not let go. “Still yours?” Juniper asked. Elio listened to the water. “For now,” he said. He lifted the stone back outand held it up.It glistened for a momentbefore returning to its quiet gray. They sat by the streamuntil the honey-light began to thin. On the walk back,Elio slipped the stone into his pocket. It did not pull. At the Hollow Tree,they paused once more. The tree held its hollow openas it always did. No questions asked.No answers offered. Elio reached into his pocketand felt the stone resting there,steady and small. “Maybe it just needed to know it could move,” he said. Juniper nodded. Above them,the sky turned from honey to blue. The stone stayed in Elio’s pocket. Not because it had to. Just because, for now,it knew its place. And that was enoughfor the walk home. 🍃 Soft Lap Whisper: If something inside you feels heavy…and you don’t know whether to keep it, move it, or let it go… you are allowedto set it down for a while. Some things are not heavy because of their size.They are heavy because we do not know where to put them. Even stones need to feel the water. To the listeners.To the whisper-hearers.To the ones who hold story before it has shape: We see you.We thank you.We will keep writing. Thank you for listening to The Hollow Tree. This is just the beginning,and you are always welcome to return—whenever you’re ready for another story. You can find more tales and behind-the-scenes magic at thehollowtree.substack.com, Instagram @TheHollowTreeStories, and remember to follow along on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, and soon YouTube. Until next time—may the path be soft,and the whisper of the forest stay with you. 🍃🕯️ —Written and performed by Amber Jensen and the voices of The Hollow Tree If this story stirred something in you…You can keep The Hollow Tree lit by subscribing, sharing it with someone who listens like you do, or leaving a kind note. Everything here is offered with care.And every listen, every share, every whisper down the line—it matters. 🌲 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thehollowtree.substack.com

    10 min
  7. Ep 19: The Child Who Borrowed a Different Ending

    Apr 1

    Ep 19: The Child Who Borrowed a Different Ending

    🌀 The Child Who Borrowed a Different Ending A Hollow Tree myth for the ones who notice when things don’t quite land where they should. Have you ever noticed how sometimes a moment ends…and it doesn’t feel finished? Like a word was about to be said,or a feeling was about to land—and then it just… doesn’t? Welcome to The Hollow Tree Where strange stories nest and grow… …and sometimes wander a little further than expected. Today’s story doesn’t stay in the forest. It lives in the in-between—where moments stretch,and endings don’t always land where they’re supposed to. Let’s begin. [Chime] “Not every trick is a trick. Some are just the world…trying again.” [Chime] 🌀 The Child Who Borrowed a Different Ending A Hollow Tree myth for the ones who notice when things don’t quite land where they should. And now, the tail. There are places that are not quite places. You won’t find them on a map. They don’t have names, or signs, or paths leading in. But sometimes—when a moment almost happens…and then pauses— you might be standing in one. In that kind of place,there lives a small being called an Inbetweener. No one knows exactly when they began. They are not born the way other creatures are. They arrivewherever something almost happens…and then doesn’t. This one was called Ollen. Ollen was made of noticing. Of pauses. Of the soft spacebetween what was about to happenand what happens instead. The in-between is a curious place. Nothing is broken there. But nothing is quite finished either. A laugh might begin—but never quite arrive. A door might open—but never fully close. A sentence might start—and then drift off,like it forgot where it was going. Ollen didn’t mind. Unfinished things were where he belonged. They felt… full of possibility. And over time, he discovered something unusual. In the in-between,endings could be… adjusted. Not changed completely. Just… nudged. The first time it happened,he didn’t mean to. A bird swooped low,startled by a sudden noise. Its flight wobbled—as if it might crash. Ollen reached out—not with hands,but with noticing— and thought: What if it didn’t? The moment stretched. Softened. Shifted. And the bird… didn’t fall. It steadied. Flew on. Ollen blinked. “That’s new,” he said. After that, he began to experiment. Not big things. Never big things. The in-between didn’t like force. It only listened to gentle curiosity. A dropped cupthat didn’t quite shatter. A sharp wordthat landed a little softer. A goodbyethat lingered just long enoughto feel like it had been said. Ollen never erased what happened. He just… helped it land differently. One day, a moment arrivedthat felt heavier than the others. A child stood at the edge of something. Not a place. A feeling. The kind that buildsright before tears. The kind that comeswhen words don’t come out right. The child opened their mouth— and nothing came. The moment tightened. Sharp. Fragile. About to break. Ollen felt it from where he stood. That almost-moment. That not-quite-landing. He stepped closer. Not into the child’s world. Just… near enough to notice. And very gently—he asked the in-between: What if this one landed softly? The moment stretched. Not frozen. Just… given space. And in that space,something small but important happened. The child tried again. Not perfectly. Not clearly. But enough. “I… don’t like that,”they said. The words wobbled. But they landed. And the moment—instead of breaking— held. Ollen stepped back. That was enough. You see, the in-between doesn’t change what is true. It doesn’t fix everything. It doesn’t make hard things disappear. But sometimes—just sometimes— it lets a moment landin a way that can be carried. And if you’ve ever said somethingyou didn’t know you had the courage to say— or felt a moment go differentlythan you thought it would— or noticed that something almost broke…but didn’t— You might have brushed against that place. Ollen is still there. Not lost. Not waiting. Just… noticing. And every now and then,when a moment needs a different ending— he leans in. Just a little. And lets it landthe way it was always trying to. 🌀 End Whisper If something almost goes wrong—and then… doesn’t— you don’t have to understand why. Some momentsjust need a little more spaceto find their way home. To the listeners.To the whisper-hearers.To the ones who hold story before it has shape: We see you.We thank you.We will keep writing. Thank you for listening to The Hollow Tree. This is just the beginning,and you are always welcome to return—whenever you’re ready for another story. You can find more tales and behind-the-scenes magic at thehollowtree.substack.com,Instagram @TheHollowTreeStories,and remember to follow along on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, and wherever you listen. Until next time—may the path be soft,and the whisper of the forest stay with you. 🍃🕯️ —Written and performed by Amber Jensen and the voices of The Hollow Tree If this story stirred something in you…You can keep The Hollow Tree lit by subscribing, sharing it with someone who listens like you do, or leaving a kind note. Everything here is offered with care.And every listen, every share, every whisper down the line—it matters. 🌲 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thehollowtree.substack.com

    9 min
  8. Ep 18: The Child Who Followed the Map Exactly

    Mar 26

    Ep 18: The Child Who Followed the Map Exactly

    🌿 The Child Who Followed the Map Exactly A Hollow Tree myth for the ones who notice where the lines don’t quite meet. 🎙️ Welcome to The Hollow Tree. This is a story for the children who read the instructions twice.For the ones who notice when the picture on the box doesn’t match the pieces inside.For the quiet observers who understand patterns before anyone asks them to. Let’s begin. 🍃 Forest Friend Whisper [Chime] “There is a meadow where every year the children walk the Path of Proper Steps. No one remembers who made the path. But everyone remembers to follow it.” [Chime] 🌿 The Child Who Followed the Map Exactly A Hollow Tree myth for the ones who notice where the lines don’t quite meet. And now, the tale Once, not far from the Hollow Tree, there was a meadow with a carefully marked walking path. The path curved politely around the pond.It looped neatly past the old stump.It crossed the small wooden bridge in the middle. Every spring, the grown-ups would gather the children and say, “This is the way we walk the meadow. Stay on the path. It has always worked.” And so the children did. They walked single-file.They kept to the chalk-white stones placed in careful intervals.They crossed the bridge one at a time. Everyone said it was proper. Everyone said it was safest. Everyone said it was fair. Except one child. Her name was Orin. Orin did not dislike the path. She simply noticed things. She noticed that the path dipped slightly after rain and made the smaller children slip. She noticed that the bridge creaked loudly on one side but not the other. She noticed that the chalk stones were spaced evenly for long legs… and unevenly for short ones. She did not complain. She did not protest. She walked the path exactly as instructed. But she counted. She measured with her steps. She watched where the water pooled. She watched who struggled. She watched who pretended not to. One day, during the Spring Walk, Orin did something unusual. She followed the path perfectly. Exactly. When the sign said, “Step Only on White Stones,” she stepped only on white stones. Even when two were placed so far apart that the smallest child behind her could not reach. When the sign said, “Cross the Bridge in Silence,” she crossed in complete silence. Even when the board on the left side groaned so loudly that the sound startled a toddler. When the sign said, “Keep Pace,” she kept pace. Even when it meant a child with a twisted ankle had to hurry. The grown-ups nodded in approval. “See?” they said. “It works beautifully.” But the children were quieter than usual. At the end of the path, Orin stopped. She did not leave the meadow. She simply turned around. And she walked it again. This time, still following every rule. Exactly. But she slowed slightly before the long stone stretch. She paused just enough that the smallest child reached her hand without it looking like help. She crossed the bridge on the silent boards only. She matched pace to the slowest walker. She stepped around the rain dip without leaving the chalk line. The grown-ups blinked. “That’s not quite how we usually—” Orin tilted her head gently. “I’m following the path,” she said. And she was. Perfectly. But now the pattern was visible. The children were not tripping. The bridge did not echo with fear. No one strained to keep up. The meadow felt… different. Not rebellious. Not chaotic. Just adjusted. The grown-ups gathered. They looked at the chalk stones. They looked at the rain dip. They looked at the spacing. They realized something small and important: The path had not been made for all the children. It had been made once. Long ago. And simply repeated. Orin did not ask for praise. She did not say, “I told you.” She knelt beside the pond and began moving one of the white stones. Just slightly. Just enough that the next smallest child could reach it. Other children joined her. No one stepped off the path. They simply shifted the markers. One by one. The grown-ups watched. Then, slowly, they joined too. The bridge boards were rearranged. The dip was filled with gravel. The stones were spaced for many kinds of legs. And that year, when the Spring Walk began again, the meadow felt wider. Not because the path had changed wildly. But because it had changed carefully. Exactly. As it needed to. Orin walked at the back that time. Counting. Measuring. Not to correct. But to notice. Because sometimes the cleverest thing a child can do is follow the rules so precisely that everyone can finally see where the rules need to grow. 🌿 Whisper If you ever notice that something “has always been done this way,”and it doesn’t quite fit… You are not difficult. You are observant. And sometimes, the meadow is waiting for someonewho reads the map exactly. To the pattern-matchers.To the careful counters.To the ones who measure before they move: We see you. We thank you. We will keep writing. Thank you for listening to The Hollow Tree. This is just the beginning, and you are always welcome to return— whenever you’re ready for another story. 🍃🕯️ —Written and performed by Amber Jensen and the voices of The Hollow Tree If this story stirred something in you…You can keep The Hollow Tree lit by subscribing, sharing it with someone who listens like you do, or leaving a kind note. Everything here is offered with care.And every listen, every share, every whisper down the line—it matters. 🌲 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thehollowtree.substack.com

    10 min
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Where strange stories nest and grow. Modern folklore and shadow-play for the wild-hearted young. For the ones who ask hard questions and hear trees speak back. thehollowtree.substack.com

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