Flash Fiction:Whispers Through the Pines

Whispers Through the Pines

Brenda pulled her sweater tighter around her shoulders as the late afternoon wind rustled through the trees. The rose in her hand—drying, its petals darkening at the edges—was the last piece she had from his funeral. It had been three days since her grandfather, Edward, passed away, and the ache inside her hadn’t dulled. If anything, it deepened.

He had been the only one who truly understood her—her thoughts, her stories, the strange dreams she used to keep secret from everyone but him. Edward would listen with wide, amused eyes, then lean in close and whisper, “Well, let’s make a story out of it then, shall we?” They’d play their storytelling game for hours. He’d take her wildest ideas and spin them into epic tales. Now the world felt still, like all the magic had drained out with his final breath.

She wandered further into the woods behind her childhood home, the place they’d walked together countless times. The sun was dipping low, casting golden beams between the pines, and every crunch of leaves beneath her feet seemed to echo too loudly in the silence.

As she reached a wooden deck that cut through a clearing—a place where Edward once taught her the names of birds and trees—Brenda stopped. She stared at the rose in her hand.

“I miss you,” she whispered.

A breeze stirred, warm and different than before. It wrapped around her like a hug, and for a moment, she swore she heard his voice.

“Brenda… my little storyteller…”

She turned sharply, heart pounding. The woods were still, save for the whispering leaves. Then, from the corner of her vision, light shimmered between the trees, and there he stood.

Edward.

He looked just as she remembered—sturdy and gentle, his eyes twinkling like they always had when he was about to tell a tale. But there was something otherworldly about him now, a calm glow around his form.

“Grandpa?” Her voice cracked. She didn’t dare move, afraid it was a dream that would vanish if she blinked.

He smiled, soft and knowing. “You don’t need to miss me, darling. I’m still here. I’ve always been here.”

Tears filled her eyes. “But you’re… gone.”

“Not gone,” he said, stepping closer without making a sound. “Just… changed. I’ve watched over you every second. And I always will.”

Brenda felt her knees weaken, but she stood tall, gripping the rose tighter.

“I don’t want to tell stories without you,” she whispered. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“You don’t have to do it without me,” he said gently. “Every time you dream, every time you imagine something beautiful… that’s me whispering in your ear. I’m your guardian now, your companion in every tale you’ll ever tell.”

She stepped toward him, tears slipping down her cheeks, and he opened his arms—but just as she reached him, he began to fade, like mist in morning sun.

“Wait!” she cried.

“Drop the rose,” he said with a final smile, “and carry me in your heart instead.”

Her hand trembled. She looked down at the dried flower—his rose—and let it fall onto the deck.

It landed between two wooden planks and slid silently through the gap, disappearing into the undergrowth below.

Brenda stood still for a long moment. The woods were quiet again, but somehow they didn’t feel empty. The wind danced around her, brushing her cheek like a kiss.

She took a deep breath, then turned back the way she came, her steps lighter than they’d been in days. Somewhere deep inside, she heard his voice again:

“Let’s make a story out of it, shall we?”

And she smiled.

Thank-you for reading.

Remember there are many paths back to God.

Follow your own path,

Brenda Marie