Pip’s Second Tale

A short story by Ezra Nadav

When spring returned to Willow Glen, the snow melted into silver streams that wove between tree roots and over stones polished smooth by many seasons.

Pip loved this time of year. He would perch on a sunny branch and listen — because in spring, every sound feels like a beginning.

One morning, as Pip followed the creek to see which wildflowers had woken first, something caught his eye. A small scrap of paper drifted along the water’s surface, spinning slowly.

Pip reached out and scooped it up before it slipped away.

It was a page — soft and worn, as if many paws had held it. Ink ran in places where the water had kissed it. Pip squinted. The words shimmered. And then — they changed.

The willow remembers… it said.

Pip blinked. The words wavered.

Now it said:

Follow where roots drink the dark water.

He held his breath. “A message,” he whispered. “Or… a story.”

And Pip always followed stories.

The page led him past the bend in the creek, beyond where he usually gathered wild sage and wintergreen, to a quiet part of the forest he hadn’t explored before.

The trees there were old — older than the oak he called home. Their bark was thick with moss, and their branches held silence like something precious.

At the center of this grove grew a willow, larger than any Pip had ever seen. Its long branches fell like curtains, brushing the earth.

Beneath it, where roots knotted like fingers, water trickled from the ground — clear, cold, and still.

A spring.

Pip stepped closer.

The air was hushed. Even the wind seemed to hold itself still.

He knelt and listened.

At first, he heard only his own breath.

But slowly — gently — something else came through.

A whisper.

Not one voice. Many.

Soft as moth wings. Faint as starlight.

We remember, the water murmured.

Pip’s heart fluttered. “Remember what?” he asked.

The water rippled. And the voices came clearer, weaving over one another like threads in a story:

Laughter by firelight… A promise made under new leaves… A goodbye at the riverbank… The first time someone knew they were not alone…

Pip recognized those feelings — not in words, but somewhere deeper. This spring was old. Older than stories written in books. Older than spoken ones, too.

This spring remembered the stories that lived — the ones told in gestures, glances, quiet moments and held breaths — the ones forests keep.

Pip closed his eyes and listened.

He heard the willow’s story — how it grew from a seed carried by a bird who had once been lost, guided home by a squirrel with a silver-star map tied to its wing.

Pip smiled. He knew that story.

He heard the hedgehog’s bravery.

The fox’s honesty.

The hare learning the moon’s cycles by heart.

He heard his own voice reading by firefly light.

The spring remembered everything.

But among all the murmurs, one voice trembled.

Lonely. Thin. As if afraid to speak.

Pip leaned closer.

“Hello?” he whispered. “I hear you.”

The voice flickered, like a candle about to go out.

I… was forgotten.

Pip’s chest tightened — gently, but surely, like something true.

“Then I will remember you,” Pip said. “Tell me your story.”

The voice steadied — only because it had been heard.

I belonged to someone, it said. A small one with soft steps. They loved to play where the creek bends. They told stories to the minnows and pretended the pebbles were treasure. They grew. They walked onward. The stories stayed here. No one came back for them.

Pip placed a paw on the ground.

The willow’s leaves rustled — softly, kindly.

“Stories don’t disappear just because someone moves on,” he said. “They just change shape. You are a beginning, not an ending.”

The spring shimmered.

The lonely voice warmed.

Water glowed like morning sun on dew.

Pip sat there for a long time — his tail curled around him, eyes soft, heart fuller than it had been when the day began.

He didn’t write the whispering stories down. Not yet.

Some stories needed to settle first.

To breathe.

To know they were safe.

When the sun dipped low and the light turned honey-gold, Pip stood.

“I’ll come back,” he promised.

The water rippled in gentle agreement — like a sigh from something ancient and kind.

On his way home, Pip noticed something new.

He felt quieter — but not small.

Still — but not stuck.

Full — but softly.

He realized:

Listening is also gathering.

Listening is also loving.

Listening is also remembering.

That night, Pip lit his firefly lantern and opened a blank page.

He didn’t rush.

He didn’t worry about the right beginning.

He simply wrote:

There is a spring beneath the willow that remembers every story ever told nearby — even the ones we forget about ourselves.

And on the next line:

Some stories just need someone to listen.

The End.

For Now.