The Girl Who Spoke to Shadows

In the mountain village of Rahin, the sun disappeared early.

By dusk, the houses folded into the hills like secrets, and the streets filled with whispers the wind refused to carry. The villagers said it was the price of peace — silence kept them safe.

But one child refused silence.

Her name was Lina, and she had a habit of talking to everything — the trees, the stones, even her own reflection in the stream. Her mother would scold her gently:

“Don’t talk to what doesn’t talk back.”

But Lina had learned something her mother hadn’t — sometimes, silence listens.

It started one winter night when the power went out.

The fire in the hearth dimmed, and the room filled with deep, soft darkness.

And then —

A voice spoke from her wall.

“Why do you look so lonely?”

Lina froze. The voice was calm, neither kind nor cruel. It came from the shadow cast by her candlelight — the outline of her own figure trembling against the wall.

“Because no one believes what I see,” she whispered.

The shadow tilted its head. “I believe you. I always have.”

From that night on, Lina spoke to the shadows every evening.

She told them her fears, her dreams, her questions about the world beyond the mountains.

And the shadows answered — not with words, but with feelings. Sometimes warmth, sometimes a shiver, sometimes the scent of rain where there was none.

But one night, she noticed something new.

When she laughed — her shadow didn’t move.

It stood still. Watching.

“Why didn’t you follow me?” she asked.

The voice returned, softer now. “Because I’m not your shadow anymore.”

Lina stepped closer to the wall. The air rippled like water. Inside that darkness, she saw a world — a place made entirely of shade and memory. And in that world, thousands of shadows stood waiting, each belonging to someone who had once spoken but was no longer heard.

“Who are they?” Lina asked.

“They are what’s left of voices forgotten,” it replied. “When people stop listening, their words live here.”

The shadow stretched out a hand. “You can stay, if you wish. We remember everything.”

Lina hesitated. Outside, the village slept — silent, safe, and unaware. Inside, a whole world waited to be heard.

She smiled softly. “Then promise me you’ll listen to them all.”

And with that, she stepped forward.

The candle flickered out.

The next morning, her mother found the candle burned to its base — and no shadow on Lina’s wall.

But sometimes, when dusk falls over Rahin, the villagers swear they hear a girl’s voice echo through the mountains —

Laughing softly in the dark.

"Because even in silence, something always listens"