At first, it was a bad dream.

A forest, too quiet. The kind of silence that presses against your ribs. No wind, no birds. Just the creak of a giant tree standing alone in the middle of nothing. Its bark blackened, its roots writhing like snakes in the dry earth. When she got too close, the roots moved. Reached. Grabbed. Tried to drag her under.

She woke up with dirt under her nails, panting, always at 3:11 a.m.

Mali didn’t know where she belonged anymore.

She had grown up away from Country, raised by a white foster family who meant well but didn’t understand the aching emptiness that followed her everywhere. They called her a “strong girl.” She smiled when she was meant to. Got good grades. Got a job. Kept moving.

But she couldn’t shake the feeling that her skin didn’t fit right. That her name wasn’t hers. That something old was calling to her, something she didn’t have the words for.

And always, the tree.

Every week, it returned in dreams. Sick and groaning, like it was dying. Sometimes she heard whispers in the leaves; languages she didn’t know but her bones seemed to understand. One night, it opened a hollow in its trunk. Inside, there was nothing but bones and red dust.

She started waking up crying.

Something changed after she met Aunty June.

It was at a community workshop. A friend dragged her along. Mali almost didn’t go. But Aunty June saw her, really saw her, and said,

“You been feeling lost, bub?”

Mali nodded before she knew she was crying again.

Aunty June taught her words. Stories. Showed her how to sit on Country and listen. Not with ears, but with her whole spirit. Mali learned to weave. Learned to paint. Learned the songs. Sometimes she didn’t understand everything, but something in her cracked open like dry ground after rain.

And the dreams shifted.

The forest was still quiet, but not so dead. The tree didn’t groan anymore. It stood taller. The bark was smoother. There were shoots of green, fresh leaves at the tips of its branches. The roots no longer pulled at her, they held her, gentle as a mother’s hands.

One night, the tree let her climb.

It was taller than she had imagined. She climbed and climbed, breath catching, arms aching, until she reached the highest branch. Above her, the stars shimmered in impossible constellations. Below, the land stretched forever; desert and river, stone and sky, salt and shadow. Country. Hers.

She woke up smiling, her cheeks wet with tears she didn’t mind.

Now, the tree comes to her every night.

Its roots are deep and strong. Its leaves whisper her name. She climbs without fear and watches the stars dance above her like they remember who she is.

Mali still doesn’t have all the answers.

But she knows she’s not alone anymore.

She’s found the beginning of a path. A story. A place to grow.

She is home.