Emma had always felt a strange pull toward the old oak tree at the edge of the woods. Towering and timeworn, its twisted branches seemed to murmur secrets to anyone who dared to listen.
One rain-soaked afternoon, curiosity led her to its roots, where something glinted beneath the mud—a tarnished silver locket, half-buried and forgotten by time. Her fingers trembled as she opened it. Inside was a faded photograph of a young woman with hauntingly familiar eyes.
That night, Emma dreamt of the same woman—dressed in white, standing beneath the oak, tears trailing down her cheeks. She spoke a single word: “Clara,” before dissolving into the mist.
Emma jolted awake, the locket still warm in her hand.
At dawn, driven by a sense of purpose she couldn’t explain, Emma returned to the woods. There, beneath the hush of morning fog, she found fresh footprints winding deeper into the trees—too small to be recent.
Following them led her to a crumbling gravestone shrouded in ivy. She knelt and brushed away the leaves. The inscription read:
Clara Whitmore — Beloved Daughter, 1898–1912.
Her breath hitched. The girl in the locket had died more than a century ago.
Just then, a sudden chill swept through the clearing. The locket turned icy in her palm. And from somewhere behind her, a gentle whisper:
“Thank you for finding me.”
Emma fled, heart pounding, but returned the next day with quiet resolve. She placed the locket gently on Clara’s grave. As she turned to leave, the wind stirred the leaves above her—soft, like laughter. The whispers in the woods had found peace at last.
And so had Emma.