Whispers Between Frost and Bloom

By [Masih ullah]

They say the forest speaks, but only between seasons.

At the edge of Elowen Wood, where snow still clings to the roots and buds tremble in the hush of late winter, the villagers dare not tread. Not in the gap days—those few, quiet hours where winter still breathes, and spring has just begun to stir. The old folk call it the Whispering. The children call it nonsense. And every year, one wanderer listens.

This year, it was Liora.

She had always felt it—the ache in the air when the last frost hung stubbornly to the moss, and the sun began to rise just a little earlier. It was more than seasons changing. It was a pulse. A turning. A soft breath exhaled from the earth’s lungs.

She left just after dawn, when the village rooftops were still silvered in ice. Her boots broke the frozen crust of snow, and her lantern swung gently at her side, its flame defiant against the cold.

The deeper she walked, the more the world changed. Ice clung to one side of the trees, while the other was streaked with green. It was as if the forest couldn't decide which life to live.

Liora stopped at the heart of the wood—the Clearing of the Divide. No birdsong. No wind. Just silence thick enough to stir a memory.

“Why did you come?” The voice was not loud, but it rang in the hollows of her bones.

Liora turned slowly. There, where the snow ended and grass began, stood a figure. Not man nor woman. Not old nor young. Cloaked in woven frost and petal, light pooling around their feet.

“To listen,” Liora said. Her voice sounded small, but not afraid.

The figure tilted their head. “Most only come to ask.”

Liora stepped closer. “Then they forget to listen.”

The figure walked the edge of the seasons. Where their foot touched snow, it melted; where it touched grass, flowers bloomed and closed again.

“Spring waits. But winter lingers. They war over time, and time is tired.” The figure looked at her with eyes like thawing ice. “The world must shift. Something must give.”

Liora’s breath caught. “What must be done?”

The figure offered a hand. “What are you willing to give?”

Liora looked down. Her lantern flickered. It had belonged to her mother, who once told her stories of this forest. Stories others had called myth.

“I can give this,” she whispered. “It has guided me through every dark I’ve known.”

The figure took it gently. “A light given freely carries great weight.”

The flame glowed brighter, leaping higher until the lantern shimmered with both fire and flower. Then the figure raised it high.

In an instant, the forest breathed again.

Snow slid from the trees like shedding skin. Buds opened, trembled, then stretched. The sky broke into soft gold. A robin sang.

Spring had arrived—not with thunder or cry, but with quiet understanding.

The figure lowered the lantern. “You have heard the Whispering,” they said. “Few do. Fewer still respond.”

“Will I remember this?” Liora asked.

The figure smiled. “Not in words. But in the warmth of soil beneath your hands. In the scent of the first rain. In the way grief softens and becomes growth.”

They stepped back. The line between frost and bloom blurred, then vanished.

And Liora stood alone, lanternless, yet filled with light.



When she returned to the village, the old folk only nodded. They saw the petals in her hair, the thaw in her eyes. The children followed her, asking about the woods, about magic.

But she did not speak of it. Not fully.

Instead, she taught them when to plant, when to wait. She sang the songs of seeds and frost. She left lanterns at the forest’s edge on the cusp of each spring.

And every year, Elowen bloomed a little brighter.

Not because of her, she would say.

But because someone listened.



Author’s Note:
Sometimes, the most powerful changes come not from battle, but from balance. Whispers Between Frost and Bloom is a story of transition—not just of seasons, but of heart. As we move through the pauses in life, may we all learn to listen between the silences.