You, the Whisper Across Lifetime

Chapter 9: Smoke and Silence

The fire had already eaten everything. Or maybe I had always been there—watching it happen through the eyes of a little girl. A child that was me, even if not exactly me. My soul. My memory.

The wooden house had collapsed into black ash and bone. Smoke curled into the sky like restless ghosts. I walked barefoot through the scorched dirt, still warm in places, until I reached what was left. My heart—her heart—knew my parents were somewhere under the wreckage.

I remembered clearly. They had sent me to collect smooth, beaded rocks by the shallow river. I came home proud, with pockets full. And then I saw the smoke.

I moved forward, six years old, my hands blackened with soot, eyes wide and scared. I reached for them.

Before I could touch anything, someone grabbed me.

"Don't look," he said, voice calm and strong. A hand covered my eyes. His hand—slim, cold. He picked me up like I weighed nothing, wrapped me against him. My body folded into his shoulder.

He whispered something I didn't understand. A foreign chant. Then the fire behind us surged higher. The last of the house turned to dust.

He walked fast—nearly flying. Through woods, over rocks, across rivers. I couldn't tell how long it lasted. Time bent.

We stopped in a clearing. Tall stones. Thick forest. A circle hidden from everything.

He put me down. From that day, I called him Father.

He never asked what happened. I never asked him how he came for me. Somehow heart speak more. But I never understood why I always kept the smooth beaded rocks close to my body. I'd hold them in my palm while I fell asleep, listening to the night sounds of the forest. They reminded me of something gentle before the fire took everything.

We lived in a stone house deep in the forest. A spring nearby. Trees taller than anything. If I climbed the tallest one, I could see the far mountains. That house became my world. It was quiet, and I felt safe.

Days had rhythm—fetching water from the spring, gathering herbs with Father, watching the smoke rise from the temple's stone chimney. I would sit near the pond and watch dragonflies skim across the surface. Sometimes I pretended they were messengers from another realm.

When I turned seven, the visions started. They came uninvited. Small flashes of what would happen next. My father noticed. He began teaching me. Not with fear—but with the Four Elements.

My Father, my foster father was a Druid Priest. He taught me a deep connection with nature, reverence for the earth, and later when I started to understand, he told me the interconnectedness of all things.

"Stay grounded," he said. "Or they'll tear you apart."

So I learned. Earth. Water. Fire. Air. Not just things, but forces. Spirits.

I asked Earth and Water to help me grow flowers. I loved flowers. I asked Wind to whisper to birds to bring me new seeds. Sometimes, they did. A strange bloom would appear days later, something I had never seen before.

I began to understand that silence was its own kind of language. The world spoke in patterns. The rustle of leaves wasn't random. The way water curved around stones—there was meaning in that. I just had to pay attention.

He told me to stop speaking to anyone else. I was only allowed to talk to him, and only inside the house. Outside, not a word. I got used to silence. I used signs and gestures. I'd never been chatty anyway.

He made me wear a cloak over my head every time I stepped outside. I didn't question it. Until I turned ten.

That's when my red-gold hair turned white. Like his.

He said it was the mark of a clairvoyant. I had been receiving visions since I was seven. But girls weren't supposed to. He didn't say why. Just that it meant I was so precious, and someone might try to take me.

By then, I could see someone's future just by looking at them.

That changed everything. My father started teaching me symbols. Plants. Meanings. Patterns.

Sometimes, villagers came from the valley to seek his help. I never saw them. But I knew what they needed.

If someone was sick, I had already prepared the medicine, concoction of herbs, before he asked.

I didn't need to speak to know.

And he never needed to ask.

Still, there were nights I lay awake wondering if I'd ever speak freely again. I never asked Father why silence mattered so much. Maybe he feared the world, or maybe he knew the world feared me.

But even in that silence, I never felt alone. The wind spoke. The fire crackled like it had something to say. The water murmured stories.

The forest, in its quiet way, answered back.