"Wild Whispers"

The Song Under the Sky The valley of Elowen had always been a quiet wonder: unaltered by time, surrounded by ancient mountains, and covered in endless wildflowers that bloomed like dreams that had long since passed. It was a place where the sky appeared to be bluer, the winds seemed to be gentler, and the earth hummed softly, as if it were whispering secrets that could only be heard by those who really paid attention. Growing up, Liora had been told stories about the magical valley. It was referred to by Mira, her grandmother, as the "last breathing piece of the old world." When Liora was a child, she believed that the stars wrote destinies on mountain peaks, rivers carried memories, and trees spoke in riddles. However, up until this point, the weight of reality had pressed those childhood fantasies deeply into her memory. She hadn't been back for ten years. Since the accident, not. But something had brought her back, a tug in her chest similar to that of an old melody. She still recalled how breathtaking it was. The tall grasses were drenched in fire and gold as the morning light fell over the ridges like warm honey. Like ocean breezes touching flowers, the air smelled salty and sweet. Orange poppies, violet lupines, and white daisies danced in the breeze as she stepped off the gravel path into the meadow. She moved slowly and quietly, as if the earth didn't want to disturb its own tranquility. She had a journal in her hand. It was her grandmother's, with a leather cover that had been touched for many years and pages that were full of looping handwriting and tiny pressed flowers. Mira had believed the voice of the valley. She asserted that the wilds spoke truths to those in greatest need. A marked page appeared when the journal opened: Listen when the river sings. Follow the trees as they sway. If you can just hear, the wild has a message for you. While her fingers trembled as they traced the ink, Liora softly scoffed. It seemed foolish, didn't it? However, Liora allowed herself to wonder—what if—for the first time in years as the memory of Mira's voice stirred like wind through tall grass. She watched the current glimmer in the golden light as she walked along the river's edge. The water appeared to be a path leading somewhere sacred and ancient because of the mist that hung just above the surface. She listened as she knelt and her fingers brushed the cool stream. A faint, melodic sound emerged, resembling a lullaby without words. Something older and softer, not the current or the splash of fish. Her heart became still. She listened to the sound. The sunlight filtered through the trees in jumbled patterns across the forest floor as the path wound through them. The leaves were coaxed into spirals of light and shadow as the wind played through them. She thought back to Mira's stories about how the forest could speak, how every bark twist and breeze sigh was a language long lost. Then she saw it: a light-covered clearing, as if the sun had chosen this one spot to worship. A tree unlike any other stood in the middle, its trunk silver-gray, its bark etched with spirals, and its blossoms glowing faintly white despite the fact that spring should not yet be in full bloom. Liora reached out, attracted by it. She experienced memories, sounds, the scent of her grandmother's garden, childhood laughter, and most importantly, a voice when her hand touched the bark. "Welcome back, wild child," I said. She gasped, her heart racing, and stepped back. The voice had not been spoken aloud; rather, it had developed within her head like a thought that wasn't her own. "What... who are you?" She spoke softly. "A parent. a feeling. A whisper of what could have been and still be. Her eyes were clouded by tears. "Why not now?" The tree appeared to be breathing as the grass was moved by the wind. "Because of your memory. because those who once listened to the wild never forget." Emotion swept over her like a tide as she fell to her knees. Since the day her grandmother died in that storm alone, while Liora was far away chasing careers, cities, and certainty, all of her pain, loss, and guilt came flooding back. She said softly, "I'm sorry." "I lost my ability to listen." The voice replied as the leaves glistened in a light and sound cascade: However, you have since returned. And the wild makes amends." A white, breath-like blossom fell from the tree. As soon as Liora took it in her palm, she felt warmth radiate through her chest. It was much more than a flower. A message was sent. Pages flew open to reveal yet another clearly marked passage as her journal in her bag slightly vibrated: Follow the Whispering Tree's path when it gives a bloom. You'll find what was lost and what is still out there. She camped under the stars that night with the blossom safely stored in her journal. She could see the mountains above her like wise, dormant giants. The stream sang. The tales told by the wind Liora also listened for the first time in a decade. In her dream, Mira was walking the same meadows, not old and frail, but young and vibrant, laughing in the breeze. Mira turned and said, "The world still sings, Liora," in the dream. Continue to listen. She awoke with a new purpose in her heart and tears streaming down her cheeks. The unpaved, unplanned, and instinctively woven path opened up for her the following morning. Wild animals were calling. With every step, Liora responded with her open heart and bare feet.