Forest by Joyce Chng

It’s been a month since Sally passed away. The house is quiet without her laughter, the pitter-patter of her feet. There is nothing, nothing, nothing—an emptiness filling every room and everyone.

The social networks she’s on—her friends lament her absence. I read their messages. They bring tears to my eyes. She is free now, one of her friends says. No more pain.

She insisted on a proper burial. She did not want to be cremated. She wanted to be buried in the middle of the forest, next to the trees she loved.

I force myself to visit the grave. No headstone, only a small copper plaque with her name, her birth date and date of passing. “A beloved child, daughter and spouse.”

Already weeds have begun colonizing the burial mound. And with the recent rains, there are now mushrooms. Many types of them—some poisonous, some not-poisonous. Fairy rings have sprouted on and around the mound. Sally loved her botany and she often could identify mushrooms. We picked the edible ones. Sally liked morels and she made a good stir-fry with them. She was a forager and in turn, I became one. She told me that even if she went, I would be provided for. I needed not worry about food.

And come mushroom season or when the forest is damp, more edible ones have appeared.

Sarah’s foraging videos were popular on her social networks. She used to post recipes daily until the illness consumed her.

I bend over, brushing the copper plaque, clearing the heart-shaped sorrel away. My fingers touch the yellow chanterelle, gently stroking the soft velvety caps—

I am here.

Sally’s voice. My eyes start to hurt with hot tears.

Hey, don’t cry.

It sounds just like her, comforting me while she’s hurting too.

“Are you here?” I ask aloud. My voice sounds uncomfortably loud. I wonder if I am losing it.

I am always here. My friends are with me and you.

I am really losing it.

I am with the earth. I am joined with the mycelia. I talk to them and they talk to me.

“Oh, Sally,” I begin to cry and my tear drops fall heavy, wet on the soil.

Don’t cry. I love you.

“Sally. Please, stop.”

Why? You need to always move. You can’t stop because of me.

“I miss you.”

Touch the ground and you can always reach me. I miss you too.

I place my trembling hands on the burial mound. It feels warm, like a body. Skin to skin, warmth to warmth.

I am always with you.

Tiny fine white threads seep up and curl around my fingers. They creep like growing white fur, up my arms. There is no pain; instead, it feels like a loving caress.

This is the social network now. It is forest and always will be.

I remain linked to forest. Sally is always with me. She is never gone-gone.

This time, I begin to laugh. The forest sings.

END

Author's note

I have always been fascinated with mushrooms and fungus, and how they are all connected by a vast intricate network of mycelia. Likewise, I am intrigued by what happens after death. Where do we go? Do we live forever?

Joyce Chng

Joyce Chng lives in Singapore. They write science fiction and fantasy as well as YA and MG. Their short stories have appeared in The Apex Book of World SF II, The Future Fire and Multispecies Cities. You can find Joyce at https://awolfstale.wordpress.com or https://bsky.app/profile/jolantru.bsky.social on Bluesky.