The Whispering Husk

It's World Coconut Day, so we give credence to a fruit that is the lifeblood of the tropics. The juice within is refreshing-- but tempting to a grieving heart.

It can make you do what you shouldn't.

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Henri was hungry; the call of island coconuts was too strong, even at midnight. He cracked the too-soft shell with a practised swing of his axe.

It cracked open. Too quickly. And--

A tremor of recognition shivered from within.

The white liquid moved--slightly.

A faint whisper---and memory.

His grandfather's smile. And voice.

"Henri..."

His name whispered, strained, billowing through the palms like smoke through the frigid air. The hair on his scrawny arms stood--yet, it was a sound he longed to hear.

The voice cracked with a soft plea.

"Drink deep. The only way to end the strife."

He took a first sip, then stopped, as though guilt had sealed his lips.

The coconut water bore odd, trembling ripples-- it had the pulse of something--

Living.

Waiting.

He looked at the cup towards his lips, then stopped.

And again.

Each lift brought the cup closer to his lips.

Each time the ripples grew stronger, thickening.

Shimmering.

A hush filled the room-- it was pregnant with an unacceptable--yet irresistible--promise.

Henri succumbed to the husk's call--his young form collapsed against a tree. Its branches were outstretched, waiting to catch him.

The husk trembled violently, beating like a trapped heart.

Henri stiffened. His body began to hollow. His skin--too tight, sinking inward.

Fingers-- Bent. Out of place.

Something inside the husk seemed to be answering Death's call. Henri's fingers curled around its emptiness, its voice braiding with his into a single, indistinguishable sound.

The husk had found its echo.

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Original story by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.

For Mikeydred's September prompt: