The Last Seedling

The van groaned as it climbed the final stretch of gravel road, the mountain’s flank a wall of green and gray. We were the first to arrive at the meeting point in Barangay Kalipay, a small clearing where the air smelled of pine and damp earth. Our mission was to deliver school supplies to the remote village of Dulugan, perched on a ridge in the Cordillera range. The other volunteers from the city would arrive by evening, but for now, it was just me, my friend Miguel, and the ever-present mist that clung to the slopes like a shroud.

We spent the first night in the wooden cottages near the trailhead, listening to the drip of water from the eaves and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures in the underbrush. By morning, we had company—a dozen other volunteers, young and eager, their laughter a stark contrast to the weight of the mountains. But the cottages were reserved for a group of trekkers coming the next day, so we were told we would move to the old schoolhouse library, a structure that stood at the edge of the village, half-swallowed by vines.

The library was a relic of a bygone era. Inside, the smell of decaying paper and dust filled our nostrils. Books lined the walls, their spines faded and cracked, some leaning like tired soldiers. In the center of the room stood a dead tree, its bare branches stretching upward to support a cluster of naked bulbs that cast a sickly yellow light. The trunk was a grotesque sculpture, its bark peeling to reveal a smooth, bone-white wood. Halfway up, a single branch held a frayed rope, and from it dangled an old backpack, its canvas stained and sagging.

We claimed our spots, spreading sleeping bags and thin mattresses over the creaking floorboards. The tree hummed with hidden energy; the light switch and power outlets were embedded in its trunk, as if the tree were an organic socket for the modern world. We charged our phones, the blinking icons like fireflies in the gloom. Miguel, always the curious one, pointed to the backpack. ‘What do you think is in there?’ he said, his voice carrying a hint of mischief.

We gathered beneath the tree, craning our necks. The pack swung slightly, as if breathing. It took two of us to pull it down—it was heavier than it looked. The zipper was jammed with rust, but with a tug, it gave way, releasing a puff of dust and a smell like wet ashes. Inside, we found a spiral notebook, its pages yellowed and brittle, and a small, glass jar sealed with wax. The jar contained a handful of seeds, dark and smooth, like tiny beetles. The notebook’s first page read: ‘For the one who finds this, do not plant the seeds. Do not let them touch soil. The tree remembers.’

The handwriting was cramped, rushed. We laughed nervously, passing the jar around. It felt warm to the touch, as if something inside were alive. Miguel unscrewed the lid and tipped a seed into his palm. It twitched, or maybe our hands were shaking. ‘Cool,’ he said, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. We resealed the jar and placed it back in the pack, which we hung on the branch where we found it. The tree hummed louder, a low drone that seemed to come from the roots.

That night, we lay in our sleeping bags, the library darker than any place I’d known. The bulbs had been switched off, and only the faint glow of phone screens lit faces. Miguel was beside me, scrolling through messages, when he suddenly said, ‘Did you hear that?’ We all went silent. From the direction of the tree came a sound like seeds rattling in a gourd, a dry, rhythmic shake. Then a faint crackling, as if something were burrowing into the wood. I felt a vibration through the floor, subtle but persistent, like a heartbeat beneath us.

By the second night, the mood had soured. The tree’s branches seemed clawed, their shadows reaching farther along the walls. One of the volunteers, a girl named Ana, complained of a nightmare where seeds sprouted from her skin. Another, a guy named Paolo, swore he saw the backpack’s outline shift, as if something were settling inside it. We tried to laugh it off, but our laughter rang hollow. I noticed the jar had moved—it was no longer in the pack but on the floor, directly beneath the tree’s trunk, the lid slightly ajar.

We decided the only logical thing was to bury the seeds far from the library, to end the weirdness. So on the third afternoon, while the others were at the village, Miguel and I took the jar and hiked to a small clearing half a mile down the slope. The ground was soft, black soil that smelled of iron. Miguel dug a shallow hole with a stick, and we poured the seeds in, covering them with earth. As we packed down the soil, I thought I saw a faint green shimmer among the dirt, but it was just the play of light through the trees.

That night, the library felt different. The tree’s humming had stopped. The bulbs flickered erratically, casting strokes of darkness across our faces. Miguel began to cough, a dry, rasping sound that seemed to scratch the air. He said he felt something in his throat, a tickle like a seedling pushing through. We gave him water, but he couldn’t stop. Then I felt it too—a swelling in my gums, as if teeth were trying to sprout where they shouldn’t. I ran to the mirror in the tiny bathroom, and in the dim light, I saw a thin, green line at the base of my tongue. It looked like a root.

Panic erupted. We decided to pack our things and leave at first light, even if we had to walk down the mountain in the dark. But as we gathered our belongings, the tree began to move. Not sway, but truly move—branches bending and twisting, the trunk splitting open like a mouth. From the crack came a dry, rasping whisper, and I swear I heard the words: ‘You planted them in my bones.’ The backpack fell to the floor, spilling notebooks and seeds across the planks. Seeds that were already sprouting, their pale tendrils reaching toward us, seeking warmth, seeking soil.

We fled into the night, stumbling down the mountain path, the sounds of cracking wood and rustling leaves chasing us. Behind us, the library groaned, and the light from its windows went out, one by one, until blackness swallowed the building. We ran until we collapsed, gasping, on the road to Barangay Kalipay. When we finally looked back, the mountain was cloaked in mist, and there was no sign of the clearing or the library, only the forest, as if it had never been there.

Months later, I still feel the roots. They have spread through my chest, curling around my ribs like ivy. At night, I dream of a tree growing from my heart, its branches reaching for a light that never comes. Miguel has stopped speaking; he only stares at his hands, where tiny green leaves push through the skin between his fingers. We found the old notebook in our pack, the one we had taken without realizing. Its last page had a new line, written in fresh ink: ‘The seeds find their way home.’ I do not know if we are the home or the tree. But I know one thing for certain—we never should have opened that backpack. And I pray that you, whoever reads this, will burn it before it burrows its roots too deep.