Arya's wooden reading block slipped from her fingers and clattered against the floorboards. Whispers slithered through the cracks of her window from the ancient forest beyond. She crept to the glass and pressed her nose against the cool pane, listening hard.
Her shadow fell across the sill, and the whispers cut off mid-syllable, as if someone had pressed a hand over their mouth. One last breath of sound curled around the glass — almost like a sigh — then silence.
The next evening, Arya marched to the forest edge where twisted roots clawed at the dirt and the whispers began again, low and shushing. She stepped forward, then back, her shoelaces tangling around her ankles.
Leaves rustled like dry bones overhead. "Who's there?" Arya called back. A branch jiggled above her. A perfectly round acorn dropped straight onto her head with a sharp bonk.
Arya tied her red scarf tight and climbed onto a mossy log to peer deeper. Shadows stretched long across the path. The whispers swirled around her ears until they hummed a vibrating, almost musical note.
She reached out and poked a hollow knothole in the bark. The whisper swatted her finger away like a playful bee, and she stumbled backward onto a bed of soft pine needles.
The whispers surged into a merry chorus, tugging at Arya's sleeve and guiding her past the root-wall toward a gap in the ancient trunks. She took a deep breath and stepped through.
Her hands flattened against bark that trembled with a song. A sudden gust roared through a cluster of hollow trees, filling the clearing with a bright, laughing whistle that spun her loose hair into a halo.
Arya didn't run home. Instead, she found a smooth stone and sat by the singing hollows, tapping it gently against the wood to keep the rhythm. The forest answered with a contented rumble.
Arya rested her chin on her knees and smiled as the wind whistled a brand-new tune that sounded exactly like laughter.