📖 Narrator – Winter Beauty

Every girl has a place where her pain turns quiet.

A bench.

A windowsill.

A tree that once held her secrets when no one else could.

For Elira, it was the tree behind the old library —

where the wind listened, and no one asked why she came.

She went there when she needed to feel seen

by something that didn’t speak.

And now, for the first time,

she wasn’t the only one leaving memories behind.

☁️ Elira’s POV

The tree had no name.

But Elira had given it one in her heart years ago:

“Khamoshi.”

Silence.

It was tall, with thin, reaching branches that held more air than leaves.

When the breeze passed through, it didn’t rustle —

it whispered.

No one came here but her.

Not even during festivals or monsoon days.

It stood behind the old library building like it had been forgotten along with everything else.

She had come here today with no particular reason, except…

the candy.

The way it had been left — so specific, so familiar.

And how yesterday, a new pressed flower had appeared in her desk drawer.

A matching one.

She hadn’t told anyone she loved white bougainvilleas.

So how did someone know?

That thought unsettled her in the gentlest way.

It wasn’t fear.

It was recognition.

Today, she sat with her back against Khamoshi’s trunk, knees curled, notebook open on her lap.

Instead of writing, she just… stayed still.

Let the breeze press her hair back.

Let the sun reach her fingers in soft streaks.

Then, she noticed it.

At the base of the tree, just near a shallow root — something folded.

Not trash. Not debris. Something placed.

She reached for it slowly, with that strange warmth returning to her chest.

It was a small sheet of yellow paper, folded once, tied with a sliver of red string —

the same thread from the candy wrapper.

Her heartbeat stuttered.

She opened it.

The writing was soft. Curved. Thoughtful.

“You keep broken flowers.

You must believe in beautiful things, even when they’ve given up.

That makes you brave.

That makes you real.”

There was no name.

No initials.

Just those words.

Elira stared at it for a long time.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t cry.

She folded the paper gently and placed it in the back pocket of her notebook —

the place she saved for things that weren’t meant to be read twice,

but couldn’t be thrown away either.

Then she looked up at the tree.

At the way it curved slightly to the left.

At the little scratch mark she had made two years ago when she pressed her back too hard while writing.

It felt different now.

This tree had always held her words.

Now it was holding someone else’s — for her.

Later that evening, as rain began to drizzle and the breeze picked up,

she returned to her dorm, sat by the window, and unwrapped the red thread from the note.

She tied it around her pen.

No one would notice it.

But she would.

And if he — whoever he was — ever noticed it back…

Then maybe, just maybe…

she wasn’t invisible after all.

🖋️ Narrator – Winter Beauty

Some things bloom after dying once.

Like pressed flowers

and forgotten girls.

And some trees —

the ones we lean on when no one else stays —

remember everything we leave behind.

Even if it’s just a piece of red thread,

or a note too quiet to read aloud.