MOOWS / Issue 01 · August 2026
Twenty Million Trees
Dorian placed the call on speaker, before wiping the sweat off his face. From the small porch in his flat, he watched the flaming brightness of Clissold Park's ochre-dry lawns.
‘Is it hot in London too?’ his father asked. He began reciting the forecast, confident he alone had access to it. The streets were hollowed by the heat. His father’s crisp voice sounded at once booming and intimate, as if they were the only people left on the planet. ‘Thirty-four degrees in London tomorrow, thirty-six on Sunday!’
They often discussed the weather, at length, and selected oddity news – a woman from Milton Keynes who woke up one day speaking in a perfect Cork accent, or a video of migrating swifts forming a dotted whale in the sky. It was their weekly call; Dorian had few habits and even the most tedious were cherished with zeal.
His father was particularly excited that day: scientists had discovered that the root system of the old weald forest was still alive, or that it could be revived if conditions were right. The edges of the woods ran parallel to his childhood home and his father had told him many times about the large oaks, cut down 600 years ago. Dorian used to walk through the phantom forest, amazed that the land could forget so completely. Blackberry bushes lining roads that smelled like farms, but not a single tree.
His father had emailed the scientists, pledging his support as a local. ‘They need more volunteers.’ he prodded, and Dorian said he’d give it a look. His father was uncommonly emotional that day, undoubtedly because of the heat. ‘Your mum would have loved to hear this.’ he paused to clear his voice. ‘It had never before occurred to me I might see it.’
A crackling silence spread between them and Dorian started reading out the sports headlines off his phone , to dispel it. The random numbers and foreign names soothed them. It was then that Dorian saw the notification about the party, and his speech tapered. He had seen the invite earlier and was unmoved, but now it seemed vital to go to a party, any party. He read another headline and then went silent. Soon after they said goodbye.
Dorian took a shower, got dressed and was ready to leave. Dorian rarely hesitated when making a decision and never regretted it. It was an instinct that grew out of resignation, not spite, from knowing that the world could change anytime he closed his eyes.
Therapists he had seen over the years were quick to link that fear to his mother’s departure, an explanation that Dorian accepted quickly. But he also maintained it doesn’t exclude the possibility the world was actually changing, that behind his closed eyes something could be lost forever. He never tried to explain his powers to anyone, knowing how that would make him sound. Instead he was vigilant.
A stone where an oak tree stood, a girl's name, the colour of her eyes. The changes were minute but they were all complete as the flood, and Dorian lonelier than Noah. The only one still in possession of both the extinct and the new.
He moved to London after graduation and got a job at the London archives where he worked hard but never stayed longer than necessary, and mostly passed on his colleagues’ invitations for drinks. Pale and wiry with marbled-yellow eyes — attractive, if not handsome — Dorian assumed the looks his powers commanded.
Because he knew relationships were mortal, he took on the world with a mix of desperation and indifference: he could spend seventy straight hours with strangers, taking any drug or drink they offered and listening to their deepest secrets, then withdraw to his flat, never having asked for their names; he bought the best food, the nicest gifts, but cared very little for money, and his own flat was sparsely decorated; of sleep, the longest of his departures from the world, he was chary.
In his dreams he visited cities speckled with beautiful spell-singing women. Sometimes they were naked and he would kiss them, but most times they would wash over him incuriously. When he would wake up he would wonder if any of these women existed, in any world, or whether he had just created them. He never saw the same woman twice.
He walked down the River Lea towpath and then turned right into Hackney Wick. He recognised the streets from the WW2 bombsite maps at work, hand-coloured: Wyke Road was yellow (blast damage, minor in nature), the result of a bomb on nearby purple Monier Road (damaged beyond repair). He had never seen this version of the streets, and their concreteness disoriented him. He stopped for a pint and watched the light drain. In a mural across the street, a young woman was dreamily resting her head on the broad shoulders of a masked superhero, thinking: ‘From the moment we met, I knew the reasons why I’d leave you.’
It was closer to midnight when he finally rang the bell. A large bearded man gestured for him to come in and immediately hugged him. A hypnotic loud base was pouring around them, and Dorian watched the space behind the man’s shoulder. A small landing opened to a large open floor where a multi-ton machine once stood. In their place were a few hundred dancers and a small bar. A tall, lithe girl, like an athlete or a circus performer girl was looking at them, smiling, and Dorian thought she was laughing at the scene, perhaps because she knew the bearded man. But her smile was patient and her large eyes fixed on Dorian even after he parted with the man. Dorian smiled back, their shared gaze bobbing up and down to the rhythm of the bold man’s profound breaths.
‘You're Dorian, right?’ she asked and continued directly to speak. ‘Don't worry, we haven't had sex.' She took a deep breath, but didn't say anything for a few seconds, staring at him instead. 'But I remember you. You have that kind of face, like you've been on the news. Have you been on the news?' 'No,' Dorian said.
'I'm Rosa.' She hugged him, both her hands firmly against his back. 'We did this part once already.'
Then he remembered. He had met her and her partner, Slavko, at a rave in the marshes. Dorian spoke mostly with him. Rosa was dancing, her sequin jumpsuit reflecting reds and yellows from LED strips hanging on trees. She looked very happy, her moon eyes shut, and Dorian uncoiled when she came over to say hello. After they had hugged, he thought she was high on MD.
They broke up a few months ago, Rosa told him, but they were still in touch. ‘He almost came to the party. We would have ended up having sex. It probably would’ve been weird.’ More people entered, forcing them closer together and deeper into the room.
‘Do you know those situations? When you are with someone but you’re also with whatever memory you have of them? A fantasy, I guess.’ Fantasy was a word Dorian thought about often; it was welcome company. He was tempted, very briefly, to tell her about his powers. Perhaps if they both stared at the same thing, closed their eyes together, they would both notice the change. ‘Next you’ll say all love is fantasy,’ he said. ‘I won’t,’ she said, and outstared him to a smile.
She worked with people with addictions, responsible for three men and two women, whom she met daily. She liked listening to people, and that was most of the work anyway. Listening, making sure they took their medications, that they kept their appointments. ‘It’s very small work.’ ‘Hardly! You’re practically their mother.’ ‘It’s a job.’ She shrugged and Dorian was quick to smile and brush her shoulders with a theatrical double stroke. Rosa laughed and shook her head.
He told her about the woman from Milton Keynes and about reviving the ole weald forest. ‘It would be weird to see trees there.’ he told her. The music was getting louder and faster, pulling them closer. ‘Are you going to help them?’ Rosa asked. ‘You should. It’d be cool.’ ‘Yeah? You like planting trees?’ ‘I like dreams. I’ll join you. Tell me when.’ Dorian could smell orange on her breath, the warmth of it hovering between them.
They kissed in the middle of the dancefloor, but not a single person touched them. If this were all there was to it, Dorian thought, he would be happy. He felt the room’s gaze, admiring two lovers kissing to an insubordinate rhythm. Two lovers in a room full of dancers, a perilous feeling similar to destiny.
He opened his eyes reluctantly, but nothing had changed. When he was younger Dorian used to celebrate such moments, which he took as augury, and even though experience had taught him otherwise, he was celebrating now nonetheless. He couldn't deny that love, or even the memory of love, was an overwhelming grace.
They stepped out for a smoke, settling themselves on a memorial bench whose dedication was illegible. Dorian pulled on his cigarette slowly, barely keeping it lit.
Rosa was telling him about her childhood in Nantlle, population 200, at the foot of Snowdonia. They had moved there from Liverpool when she was seven, because her parents craved rural living. ‘They love it there. The rain, the moss, the slates. A deafening silence vibe.’ She was talking with great ease, almost singing, a liquid fluency which was a tonic for Dorian.
‘And you didn’t like that?’ ‘You notice everything in a place like that. Light, sound. Even people’s emotions.’ She paused. ‘Maybe not everyone, but I did. It was a bit much.’ ‘Must be lonely,’ Dorian said, ‘being the only witness.’
She finished her cigarette, and Dorian held his out as an offer. They pulled on it in turns, passing it between their lips until the last of its ambers dulled. From the slow-running river came a warm rust-scented mist, and they both were careful not to speak. Suddenly he thought of planting new trees in the ancient ground of the Weald Forest, one tiny acorn at a time, working alongside his father. So many unlikely hopes were carried in that mist. But he didn't say anything; it was an evening made for smoking quietly with lovers, warm and still, so fragile he could barely breathe.
From the bench, they walked towards the marshes. A rising nimbus moon coloured the streets in greys and blues.
‘When we were kids,’ Rosa said, ‘before going to bed, we would go to the woods in this light. Me and my sister and my mum.’ ‘Like a fairy tale.’ ‘We had head torches but when we were coming back, my mum would close them. She’d get us to find our way back in the dark.’ ‘Weren’t you afraid?’ ‘At the beginning, yes. Very scared. But my mother was there saying no, listen. Just listen.’
A fox screamed, but his cry was silenced by cars over the Eastway. Beyond the tree line, a gossamer blanket of fog covered the field, witches tucking in its folds. ‘Then we got more comfortable. We accepted it – the wind, the animal sounds. We were just like the other creatures living there.’
They walked onto a glistening gravel path, the ground gurgling beneath them, Dorian and Rosa, as well as young Rosa, her sister and mum. In such a large group, the silence hung heavy. ‘Do you think that’s why you’re so happy?’ Dorian finally asked.
Rosa stopped walking and her face hardened. But then she smiled again and placed her hands over Dorian’s eyes. ‘Close them,’ she whispered. He nodded, regretting what he had said, knowing it was fatal. He felt a change beginning. He began cataloguing the world : the distant cars, the crows, the leaves clapping like falling rain. Rosa was silent, and after a few seconds he no longer felt her hands.
But he could still smell the orange on her breath. He briefly imagined he was surrounded by swirling dancers again. She took his hand and started walking. He kept recording: a bright passing light; the rushing river; a flickering moth; the flowers of linden trees, like ripe summer fruit.
Sometimes all that changed was a memory, but memories bled into sensations, changing them for worse, or better. An odd terror was spreading over him. Terror like a pleasure, bottomless and cool as a basalt spring.
Rosa’s hair brushing on his shoulder, her body, the thumping of her heart. A wind in the trees and then on their faces, unexpectedly warm, smelling of farms and blackberry bushes. They both stopped.
‘Are your eyes closed too?’ He asked. ‘Yes.’ Rosa mumbled. She tightened her hand over his and he could hear her smile. ‘Careful,’ she whispered, her lips close to his, ’We are falling off the face of the earth.’
Twenty million trees were climbing from the ground, like worshippers begging the heavens, desperate for grace. In the cool morning air he could feel it already, from London to the sea, twenty million trees.