Whispers Beneath the Surface

A Desert of Dust and Silence

In a quiet desert village where the wind often carried more dust than sound, Lina lived with her grandmother in a small clay house. Life here was dry in more ways than one — the air, the soil, and often, the spirit. The days passed with chores, silence, and stories whispered under flickering lanterns. But nestled at the edge of the village stood an ancient, half-forgotten mosque, and beside it, a cracked stone well that hadn’t been used for years. The villagers said its water had vanished. Lina discovered otherwise.

A Whisper in the Wind

It began after her father's death. He had been a well-digger, a man who spoke to the earth and listened to water. He believed water had memory and emotion — that it listened as much as it flowed. When he died in a sudden storm, Lina felt something tear inside her. The village mourned quietly, but grief was noisy in her heart. She sought silence in the old mosque courtyard, away from sorrowful eyes and polite condolences.

That’s where she first heard it.

A whisper. Soft. Rhythmic. Like breath under stillness.

The Secret Beneath the Stone

She followed the sound to the well. At first glance, it was empty. Nothing but a hollow cylinder of stone. But when she leaned in, the whisper grew clearer. Words formed. Faint. Gentle. Ancient.

"We carry what you bury."

Startled, Lina stumbled back. Had the wind spoken? Or her own grief playing tricks? Yet the voice had clarity. She returned the next day. And the next. Each time, the whispers grew. They weren’t frightening. They were patient. Sad. Like someone remembering things long forgotten.

Memories That Float

The water, it seemed, was still there — hidden beneath rock and time. And it remembered everything.

Her father. His laughter echoing down canyon walls. His prayers before digging. His final song before the storm. It remembered stories, laughter, lullabies, and sorrows poured into its depths across generations.

She began to speak to the well, telling it stories, asking questions, sometimes just sitting in shared silence. In the stillness, Lina started to feel something mend inside her. She wasn't alone. The water beneath, though unseen, was listening. It remembered joy. Pain. History.

The Answer in the Depths

One night, under a moon heavy with light, Lina asked, “Why do you whisper to me?”

The voice came, clearer than ever before:

"Because you listen."

And then silence. But it was a full, warm silence — the kind that follows truth.

Stories that Heal

The next day, she took a notebook and began writing. Stories her father once told. Secrets her grandmother whispered at night. Dreams she saw in sleep. The whispers guided her, one memory at a time. Her home, once dry and dull, began to fill with words, colors, and meaning.

Soon, children from the village came, sitting with her near the well as she shared tales old and new. The villagers, curious, followed. Someone cleared the mosque's courtyard. Someone else brought a kettle of tea. Life returned slowly — not as it was, but gentler, deeper.

She even painted a mural beside the well: waves, stars, and a girl listening to the deep. People called it “The Listening Well.”

The Well Awakens

One evening, rain fell.

Not much. Just enough to wake the dust. But it was enough to make the well shimmer faintly with fresh water. Lina leaned in. No whisper this time. Only her reflection, and a smile she hadn't worn in months.

The water had remembered. And so had she.

A Place to Begin Again

The well became more than a landmark. It became a place for stories, for silence, for healing. Travelers began stopping by. A poet once left a verse carved into the stones. A mother named her daughter Lina. A stranger left candles and prayers.

Lina grew into a storyteller, a healer of sorts. Not with herbs or chants, but with memory and water. She taught others to listen, not just to voices, but to silence. To the stories buried in all of us.

Moral: Sometimes, healing begins where we choose to listen — not just to words, but to silence, memory, and the life that flows beneath the surface.