The Man Who Spoke to Shadows

In the village of Norwyn, silence was tradition. People spoke only when necessary, and whispers were currency. Tucked between forgotten hills and silent woods, the village was both peaceful and unsettling — like a song held on its last note, never finishing, never beginning.

Jareth was unlike the others. He was born into silence, but he never accepted it. As a child, he asked questions that made people uncomfortable — “Why do we not speak of the forest?” “Why does the wind sound like words at night?”

The elders shushed him.

But the shadows didn’t.

On his twelfth winter, Jareth heard the first whisper in the woods. He had wandered too far while chasing a fox, and dusk fell fast. The trees grew taller, the silence heavier — and then it came:

"Jareth."

A whisper. Clear. Calm. Unmistakable.

He spun around, but saw nothing. No one.

That night changed him. The voice followed him, not with fear, but with curiosity. It spoke only in the woods, only when he was alone. Over the years, he returned to the forest often. The shadow’s voice grew bolder, sharing secrets, stories, and warnings.

"There was once a time when Norwyn sang," the shadow whispered one evening, as Jareth leaned against a fallen log.

"What happened?" he asked aloud.

"Fear. They chose silence to stay safe, but they forgot what they silenced."

Jareth didn’t fully understand, not then. But he knew one thing — the shadows weren’t evil. They were memory. Leftover thoughts. Forgotten voices.

Years passed. The boy grew into a man, restless and thoughtful. While others busied themselves with chores, harvests, and rituals of silence, Jareth carried the weight of whispers. They shaped him, tugged at his spirit, and sometimes made him feel more at home with the trees than with his own kin. He often wondered if the villagers were blind to the forest, or if they simply pretended not to hear.

When he turned twenty-five, the forest changed. It grew darker. Restless. Branches clawed against one another like brittle fingers, and the air pressed heavy against the chest. The voices turned to warnings.

"They are waking."

"The silence is cracking."

"You must remember what they buried."

Jareth confronted the village elders.

“There are voices in the woods,” he told them. “They speak of things you hide.”

The room fell still. Firelight flickered against old faces, shadows etched deep into their wrinkles. No one looked at him. Finally, one elder replied, his voice like dry earth breaking:

“Then you are cursed too.”

They told him the truth — or a version of it. Long ago, Norwyn had been a thriving place of music and stories. Until something began responding to them. Creatures. Shadows. Not entirely evil, but not meant to be disturbed. The villagers silenced themselves to avoid drawing their attention.

“But it didn’t work,” Jareth said. “They still speak.”

“Because you listened,” the elder said bitterly. “Because you dared to hear what should remain forgotten.”

That night, Jareth could not sleep. The silence of the village pressed down like a suffocating blanket. But in the forest, the whispers rose in chorus. They came to him in full form — not just voices, but figures of memory, shaped by forgotten voices. Shapes that flickered like candle smoke, yet carried faces that felt familiar.

“You are not cursed,” one said. Its voice was both male and female, old and young, like a hundred echoes woven into one. “You are chosen.”

“For what?” Jareth asked, trembling.

“To speak what was silenced.”

And so, he began. At first, he whispered in the forest, speaking stories back to the shadows, testing his voice against theirs. The woods answered in kind, branches swaying as though listening. Then he dared at the village’s edge, humming old tunes he didn’t remember learning but somehow knew. Finally, he grew bold. His words became louder. Songs returned. Stories flowed again.

Some villagers turned their backs in fear, crossing themselves against his defiance. Some grew angry, calling him reckless, cursed, a danger to them all. Yet others — especially the young — listened. Their eyes widened, their hearts stirred. They had never known songs, never felt stories roll from the tongue like fire and water at once. To them, Jareth’s voice was not a threat but a gift.

The more Jareth spoke, the clearer the shadows became. They gathered at the forest’s edge, not as monsters but as echoes — of ancestors, of dreams, of truths too long buried. Their faces grew distinct. Their movements steadier. They were not hungry for harm, but for remembrance.

The silence broke slowly, then all at once.

At first it was a single melody sung at dusk. Then a tale retold by a grandmother to her curious child. Then laughter around the fire that carried no shame. Word by word, note by note, Norwyn remembered itself.

The forest brightened. Where branches once twisted like claws, blossoms returned. Where silence once suffocated, the wind carried harmony again. Shadows that had once prowled in unease now lingered like watchful guardians, smiling faintly as though finally at rest.

Jareth had given the village back its voice.

Norwyn began to sing.

And the shadows?

They smiled.