Emma had always felt drawn to the old oak tree at the edge of the woods. Its twisted branches whispered in the wind, like it knew things. One rainy afternoon, she found something buried in its roots—a tarnished silver locket with a faded photo of a woman who looked strangely familiar.
That night, Emma dreamed of the same woman, dressed in white and crying beneath the tree. Before vanishing into the mist, she whispered one word: “Clara.”
At dawn, Emma followed fresh footprints into the woods and discovered a crumbling gravestone hidden under ivy. It read: “Clara Whitmore, Beloved Daughter, 1898–1912.” Her chest tightened. The girl in the locket had died over a century ago.
A chill ran through the air, and the locket turned ice-cold in her hand. A soft voice whispered, “Thank you for finding me.”
The next day, Emma placed the locket on Clara’s grave. As she walked away, the wind stirred the leaves gently—like laughter finally released into the trees.
The woods were quiet now. And so was Emma’s heart.
