The dense forest whispered its secrets as a small figure in a faded cotton dress slipped between the trees. The chill of a June morning sent shivers through Emily, but she stubbornly pressed on, pushing aside prickly branches with hands long accustomed to scratches. «Teddy! Bunny! Where are you?» her thin voice rang out, echoing off the pine trunks.
«Dolly, where are you?» The echo carried her words deeper into the woods, but no reply came. Emily furrowed her brow, bit her lip, and kept going. Today, she was determined to find her toys, which, according to her grandma Barbara, had gotten lost in the forest.
Suddenly, a sharp pine branch whipped across her face, leaving a long scratch on her cheek. Emily yelped in surprise, pressed her hand to her face, and felt warm moisture. Blood.
Her young heart pounded faster, not from pain but from fear of what awaited at home. «Not iodine again!» she muttered, wincing at the thought of the stinging liquid her grandma used on every scrape. The last time Barbara pulled out the iodine bottle, Emily nearly knocked over the entire medicine cabinet trying to escape.
But then, of course, she stood still, clenching her fists and biting her lip, while her grandma’s gnarled, warm hands gently tended to a scrape on her knee. Emily sat down on a fallen log covered in soft moss. Nearby, a small stream gurgled cheerfully, skipping over pebbles.
The girl scooped up a handful of cold water and washed her face, rinsing away the blood. «The water’s icy, like the well at home,» she thought, suddenly recalling her grandma’s old rhyme: «Cool water, clear and bright, wash away the hurt tonight.» Emily glanced at her reflection in a tiny whirlpool in the stream.
Staring back was a serious face with big hazel eyes and thin blonde pigtails peeking out from under a faded headscarf. A red streak marked her cheek where the scratch ran. She gingerly touched the wound.
It didn’t hurt much. «It’s fine,» she told her reflection. «I’ve had worse.» Around her, birds sang, leaves rustled, and old pines creaked, sharing centuries-old tales with one another.
Emily loved these sounds—they felt far clearer to her than the whispers of the townsfolk when she passed by their yards. Orphan. Poor thing.
Even now, sitting by the stream, Emily heard those voices in her head. Her grandma’s story about her parents was always beautiful. Her dad, a musician, had gone off to faraway places to collect songs for people. Her mom, so light and lovely, had been whisked away to the sky by a strong wind.
Emily imagined her mom watching her from the clouds, while her dad roamed the world with a guitar slung over his shoulder. But the neighbor boy, Tommy, a scrappy kid with perpetually skinned knees, once shouted after her: «Your dad’s six feet under, and your mom died having you!»
Emily froze in place, then slowly turned around. She didn’t cry or run away—she just fixed Tommy with a long stare that made him falter and step back. «That’s not true,» she said quietly.
«My dad’s collecting songs for people.» Then she walked home and sat on the porch for hours, staring at the road stretching toward the horizon. That evening, Barbara found her there, eyes red but tearless.
Barbara wrapped her granddaughter in her strong arms, smelling of herbs and fresh-baked bread, and asked no questions. A few days later, Emily overheard her grandma talking with their neighbor, Mary. «Why do you fill the girl’s head with fairy tales?» Mary was saying.
«Just tell her the truth—that her dad died of cancer, and her mom passed during childbirth.» «She’ll face that truth soon enough,» Barbara snapped. «Let her live in a story for now.»
From then on, Emily knew Tommy, for all his meanness, had spoken the truth. But somehow, it didn’t make things any easier.
Her grandma’s tale of a mom swept to the heavens and a dad chasing songs felt warmer, kinder than words like «passed» or «died.» The sky above the forest began to lighten as the sun climbed higher. Emily sprang up from the log.