In the crook of the old elm tree, a voice drifted like smoke rings in a forgotten room. It murmured secrets of the lost, tales wrapped in the gentle embrace of time and dust. The village children often dared each other to listen, but they never dared linger long enough to unravel the story.
One evening, a stranger with eyes like deep wells ventured near the tree. They said she could hear what others could not—could see the tendrils of stories that wrapped around moments like vines around pillars. She knelt by the tree, cupping her ear to the gnarled bark, and the whispers grew louder, tinged with color, swirling in a dance of forgotten laughter and silent tears.
As the dusk deepened, the whispers led her down paths only the moon knew, through gardens of shadows where flowers bloomed with the voices of the past. The villagers spoke in hushed tones, wondering if the girl would return, or if she too would become a story, carried by the wind to haunt the dreams of those who dared to listen.
Echoes in the Garden The Veil's Shadow