THE SILENCE AFTER THE STORM
730 Words
The countryside had always been a quiet place, but after her parents died, the silence became something else—too heavy, too deep, too wide for sixteen-year-old Eminia to carry.
Their old farmhouse creaked in the cold mornings. The walls whispered old memories in every corner. Her mother’s apron still hung behind the kitchen door. Her father’s boots still sat by the entrance, dusty, waiting for footsteps that would never return.
It had been three months since the storm.
Three months since the sudden flood washed their truck into the swollen river.
Three months since the village chief stood on the porch with his hat in his hand and eyes full of something he wished he didn’t have to say.
Eminia remembered the night perfectly.
The roaring rain.
The flashing lights.
The cold numbness that swallowed her whole.
Now, every morning, she forced herself to get up before sunrise.
She fed the chickens.
She swept the floor.
She tended to the small garden her mother loved.
She did it because someone had to—because the world didn’t stop moving, even when hers had shattered.
But deep down, she felt like a ghost inside her own life. School was far, chores were endless, and loneliness followed her like a shadow.
Still, she refused to leave the farmhouse.
It was all she had left of them.
Their warmth lived in these walls.
Their memories hummed through the quiet valley.
Sometimes, when the evenings grew soft and the hills were painted gold, she imagined her mother’s voice in the breeze. She imagined her father’s laughter mixing with the rustle of the fields.
Those moments kept her alive.
But they didn’t take away the ache.
And as winter crept into the countryside, Eminia didn’t know how much more she could endure.
Not until the day a stranger walked down the dirt road toward her home, carrying a leather satchel and a name she had never heard before.
A name that would change everything.
He appeared on a cold morning, hands tucked into his faded coat pockets. Eminia stood stiffly by the chicken coop, clutching a bucket of feed, watching him approach.
“Are you Eminia?” the man asked gently.
Her heart thudded. Strangers rarely visited this far out.
“Yes,” she answered, voice thin.
He nodded. “My name is Rowan. I… knew your parents.”
Those words hit her like a sudden wind.
Rowan wasn’t from the village. His accent was different, softer, and his eyes carried a strange mixture of sorrow and determination.
He reached into his satchel and handed her a sealed envelope.
“Your father gave me this years ago,” he said. “He told me to deliver it ‘when the time was right.’ I didn’t know what that meant… until I heard what happened.”
Eminia stared at the envelope. Her father’s initials—A.M.—were pressed into the wax seal.
Her hands shook.
Inside the farmhouse, Rowan sat at the wooden table while Eminia opened the letter with trembling fingers.
Her father’s handwriting flowed across the page, familiar, steady, still able to break her heart.
My dearest Eminia,
If you’re reading this, it means life has taken a turn I prayed it never would…
Her breath hitched.
…and I’m not there to guide you anymore. But I want you to know that you are stronger than the world will ever understand. And you are never truly alone. I have left you everything I know about the land, the farm, and more importantly—about surviving without us. Rowan will help you when the time comes. Trust him.
Love,
Dad
Tears blurred her vision.
She pressed the letter to her chest, aching with longing and comfort all at once.
When she finally lifted her eyes, Rowan was watching her with quiet understanding.
“I’m not here to take over,” he said softly. “But your father was a good man. If you’ll let me… I’d like to help you keep this place running. At least until you’re steady.”
Eminia hesitated.
Trust was hard.
Pain made it harder.
But her father’s letter sat warm in her hands.
And for the first time in months, she felt the faintest spark of hope.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Help me.”
And Rowan smiled in a way that felt like sunlight breaking through
- Writer
