In a secluded cemetery, where time lingers and history whispers through the air, Elara wandered between weathered gravestones, drawn to the reflective pool at its heart.
Each twilight, she returned, tracing the names carved into stone, feeling the weight of lives once lived. The pool, a dark mirror, did more than reflect her image—it revealed the spectral echoes of those long gone.
One evening, as the stars shimmered like watchful sentinels, a voice rose from the water—a whisper, unraveling the tale of an old settler who had loved and lost, who had fought against the land and been shaped by it. His words spun through the air, painting visions of harvests and hardships, of resilience and regret.
Then came others. Night after night, new voices stirred—tribes, pioneers, forgotten soldiers—all eager to share their stories. Their murmurs wove together, a restless chorus of memory and longing. And Elara listened, absorbing each tale, each fragment of history fighting to be remembered.
Seasons passed, and she became their keeper. The cemetery was no longer a resting place but a threshold, where the past refused to be silenced. And in Elara’s heart, the stories endured—the voices of the forgotten finding refuge in her memory, refusing to fade.
Leave a Reply