The forest was quieter than it had ever been.
Even the wind tiptoed between the trees, as though it too was holding its breath.
Elowen stepped carefully through the underbrush, her boots barely brushing the frost-laced grass. The sky above her was dull silver, caught between dawn and something colder. She held Amara's letter close, folded into the pocket over her heart. It had been two days since it arrived.
Two days since she had stopped lying to herself.
Now, each step felt heavier—more honest.
She wasn't looking for anything in particular, just walking, as Amara used to say. "Sometimes your heart leads you better than your eyes." So she let it.
It led her toward the hill behind the manor, where old trees grew in spirals and the river hummed soft lullabies below. It was a place they used to visit together in spring, where petals once danced in the wind like laughter.
But now it was winter. The trees wore white veils. The flowers were gone. And in the center of it all stood a single bell tree.
It wasn't a real tree—not anymore. Its trunk was twisted with age, bark flaking like worn paper. But its branches were hung with hundreds of small silver bells, each one tied with fraying ribbons, like wishes made long ago and quietly forgotten.
Elowen had seen it before, but only from afar.
Today, her feet brought her closer.
She stood beneath its boughs, and for a moment, she could feel the hush of generations. It was said that villagers tied a bell here when their hearts broke, and the wind would carry the sound to the stars so the pain wouldn't stay trapped.
She reached out and touched one of the bells.
It was cold.
Still.
Silent.
Just like her.
She swallowed and stepped back. A gust of wind pushed through the trees then, soft but sure, and the bells shivered in response. Not a chime exactly—more like a whisper. The kind you feel more than hear.
She looked up.
And for the first time, she listened.
To the sound of her breathing.
To the ache that lingered in her chest.
To the parts of herself that Amara had once touched—gently, patiently—without ever asking her to explain.
"Elowen?"
She turned at the voice.
It was Orielle again.
The gardener's coat was dusted with snow, and her cheeks were flushed from the cold. She looked nervous, twisting her gloves in her hands.
"I didn't mean to scare you," she said. "I just… saw you walking this way. Thought maybe you'd want company."
Elowen blinked. For a moment, she wanted to say no. She was used to solitude. It fit her like a second skin. But something in Orielle's face—a kind of quiet kindness—made her pause.
"You can stay," Elowen said softly.
They stood together beneath the silver bells.
Orielle glanced up at them. "Did you know some people believe they ring louder the more honestly you speak?"
Elowen gave a sad smile. "Then maybe that's why mine haven't rung at all."
Orielle looked at her, but didn't press.
Instead, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a small strip of ribbon—blue and soft, like twilight. "Here," she said. "Tie it to one. You don't have to tell me why."
Elowen stared at the ribbon. Then slowly, she took it. Her fingers trembled as she reached for a low-hanging bell. She tied the ribbon gently, like tucking a memory to sleep.
And then, under her breath, she whispered the truth.
"I miss her."
The bell shivered.
A small, soft chime rang out.
And Elowen felt her throat tighten.
Orielle didn't say anything. She just stood beside her, quiet as snowfall.
"I told her I'd wait," Elowen said after a moment. "But some days I feel like I'm disappearing."
Orielle looked at her, and this time, her voice was steady. "Then let me help you stay."
Elowen blinked.
The words weren't romantic.
They weren't loud.
But they were full of something strong and real. And in that moment, Elowen realized love didn't only come in bursts of color and wild declarations. Sometimes it came in silence. In standing beside someone when the world felt hollow.
The silver bell above them chimed again.
And this time, Elowen heard it clearly.
Her heart wasn't silent anymore.