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Shrek had learned that peace is loud. It was in the choir of crickets after rain, the splashy applause of his swamp when a frog tumbled from a lily pad, the muffled thump of Dragon’s tail when she napped near the willow. Peace used to be a lonely thing for him; now it was a house made of friends, and a door that never quite shut.

On the morning this story begins, Shrek found a message in a bottle wedged between two reeds. The cork was stubborn. He tugged, grunted, and finally bit the thing loose. A curl of paper popped into his teeth like a noodle.

“Oi, you’ve got fan mail?” Donkey asked, trotting up with a mouthful of moss he called breakfast.

Shrek shrugged. “If it’s a bill, I’m feeding it to the mud.”

He unrolled the paper. The letters were spiky and bright blue, as though someone had written with lightning. It read:

“To the Ogre of the Swamp,
Come at dusk. Bring nothing but your courage.
—The Willow.”

Donkey peered over his shoulder. “Trees are writing letters now? What’s next, advice columns by mushrooms? Dear Fungi—my knight won’t stop polishing his armor at dinner—”

Shrek folded the message and slipped it into his vest. “If a tree wants to talk, we’ll listen. Trees don’t waste words.”

That evening, Fiona braided her hair and kissed the twins goodnight. “I know that look,” she said, adjusting Shrek’s collar. “Adventure knocking?”

“Maybe just tapping,” he said. “We won’t be long.”

Dragon rumbled from the willow’s shade, half-asleep, her smoke a lazy silk ribbon in the air. Puss in Boots, who had been napping in the hammock, flipped to his feet with a theatrical sweep of his hat. “Where my friends walk, I strut,” he declared. “Also, I am owed three dinners. Perhaps the willow pays in mice.”

They reached the old willow as the sky poured itself into the swamp, violet and gold. The tree stirred, leaves whispering like thousands of secret voices. The bark unfurled a slit that opened into a mouth made of moss.

“You came,” said the Willow, and the sound was rain in a cavern.

“We were invited,” said Shrek. “What’s this about?”

“Roots speak,” the Willow sighed. “They warn of something hollow creeping beneath the wetlands. It drinks the water from the earth and leaves thirst in its shape. Follow the dry veins. Stop the drinking.”

“Sounds like a well,” Donkey said. “Or a very rude straw.”

Puss twirled his rapier. “Hollow villains are cowards. They fear a sharp point.”

Shrek touched the Willow’s bark, which was cool and damp. “We’ll see to it,” he said. The tree’s leaves shivered in thanks, and a small puffball kicked free from a branch, glowed, and drifted down like a golden seed. It hovered near Shrek’s shoulder, humming softly.

“A lantern?” Donkey blinked. “That’s adorable. I call dibs if it sheds crumbs.”

They followed the pulsing glow of the seed-lantern through marsh and moss, past cattails that bowed and stood to attention again like gossiping guards. Soon the ground turned from sponge to sponge-bone. The mud paled. The frogs’ song thinned into a wary silence. And then they saw it: a ring of cracked earth around a black mouth, like the swamp had been kissed by a drought.

The hole breathed cold.

Shrek felt the hairs on his arms lift. “Stay close,” he said.

He slid down first, feet finding a slope of slick clay that spiraled into darkness. The golden seed lit the walls: veins of old roots, shriveled and torn, and marks like finger-scratches, many and frantic. Donkey’s hooves clattered behind him, and Puss descended in neat, nimble hops, as if the earth were a stair he had paid for.

At the bottom, the tunnel opened into a cavern with a lake that wasn’t water. It was mirror-still, black as forgetfulness. In the center stood a figure half-formed: a tall, hollow thing made of reeds bound with silver string, head bent like it was trying to hear the ground.

When it turned, its face was the inside of a mask, empty eyeholes drawing the light in.

“Visitors,” said the Hollow Reed. Its voice was dry paper rubbed together. “You drip with noise.”

“Howdy,” Donkey said, because Donkey never learned how not to be friendly. “Listen, we’ve got a thirsty swamp upstairs and you seem to be drinking it like it’s free refills.”

The Reed inclined. “I am doing mercy. The world carries too many reflections. I am making fewer. When the water is gone, the sky will not have to look at itself.”

Puss stepped forward, whiskers taut. “You would starve the frogs to spare the heavens embarrassment?”

Shrek rolled his shoulders. “I’ve known plenty who hid behind fancy words to excuse ruining things. You can put that back.”

The silver strings trembled. “You mistake me. I am not taking. I am unmaking. A kindness.” The Reed lifted an arm. The black surface shivered, and a thin strand rose into its palm, vanishing into the hollow of its chest with a sound like a sigh leaving a house.

Donkey pawed the ground. “That’s it. You’re a big ol’ straw with delusions of poetry.”

Shrek felt the swamp’s thirst calling from above—dry grass, sinking lily pads, birds circling without a place to land. Anger came up slow, like good bread rising. “You want silence,” he said softly. “But silence is for resting, not for living.”

He stepped into the black lake. It was colder than the absence of a hug. The golden seed flared, and Shrek felt it anchor to his heartbeat. He reached into the dark and found the silver strings that held the Hollow Reed together. He wrapped his thick fingers around them. They were surprisingly warm, like veins in a wrist.

“Let go,” the Reed whispered, suddenly small.

“Not until you do,” Shrek said, and he tugged.

The strings sang, a high, sad note. The cavern winded itself tight. Donkey began to hum a nonsense tune, because he thought it would help, and Puss raised his sword and touched the water’s surface like a blessing.

Shrek pulled, not with anger now, but with a stubborn, swamp-born patience. He pulled like you pull a cart out of mud without cursing the mud for being mud. The strings loosened. The Reed shuddered. Its empty face turned from mask to mirror; for a heartbeat Shrek saw himself deep within it: a big, stubborn ogre holding on for dear life.

Then the strings broke.

The black lake collapsed into water—real water—rushing in a circle and laughing as it ran. The Hollow Reed fell apart into a pile of reeds that were just reeds, and silver threads that were just threads, and a sound like someone finally breathing.

The golden seed flickered, settled on the surface, and sprouted a tiny leaf that spun and spun until it became a ring of ripples.

They climbed back to the surface in a rush of mist. The cracked earth darkened. Frogs celebrated as if someone had invented frogs again. Dragon, who had woken at the first smell of fresh water, bellowed from the willow and sent a jet of steam that arched like a rainbow.

Fiona met them at the door, the twins clinging to her skirt, shoes muddy. “How was your tapping adventure?”

Shrek smiled and lifted the golden sprout cupped in his palm. It had grown a second leaf. “We had to remind the ground how to drink.”

That night, peace was loud again. Crickets held a concert. Wind tangled itself in the willow’s hair and told her jokes. Donkey snored like a trombone, Puss purred like a drum, Dragon’s tail thumped the beat, and Shrek—who once believed he was only meant for solitude—lay awake for a while just to listen.

In the morning, the bottle by the reeds held another note. This one was only one sentence, written in the same lightning-blue script:

“Thank you for returning the sky’s reflection.”

Shrek tucked it beside the first and went to make breakfast. He hummed as he stirred the pot. Peace, he decided, isn’t the absence of noise. It’s the kind of noise you’re glad to wake up to. And in his swamp, that music would never be unmade.