Whispers of Eternity

1. Whispers of Independence 💙

Exhausted and parched, Ara collapsed onto the cool tiles of her room, gasping for air after her grueling workout. Her muscles ached, and beads of sweat trailed over her skin, glistening like morning dew. She lay there, gathering the strength sapped by her rigorous routine, when the shrill ring of her phone pierced the silence.

With a weary groan, she mustered the energy to rise, her limbs protesting as she shuffled toward the insistent call.

A frown etched itself across her brow as 'Mama' flashed on the screen of her cell. It was an unusual occurrence; her mother seldom used the phone to reach out, reserving it for moments of sheer necessity. Ara's mind raced back to the harrowing call four years prior, the one announcing her father's accident. That memory lingered, a stark reminder of her mother's peculiar ways-a trait they both seemingly shared.

"Ma?" Ara's voice was a tired whisper, her body slumping against the edge of her bed. Her gaze drifted to the family photo on her round study table, a silent testament to happier times.

"Ara, darling. I need you. Your uncle has sprained his leg, and we can't reach your dad. I'm certain he's still at home. Please, it's urgent," her mother's voice crackled through the phone, each word laced with a frantic urgency that reminded Ara of a mother hen's distressed clucks in search of her scattered brood.

"What? How? Where are you?" Panic edged Ara's words. Her father, the town's respected doctor, was the go-to for any family medical crisis. In their close-knit community, where everyone knew everyone, his absence was a rare anomaly.

"We're at the Hollow Café. Your uncle... in a fit of impatience, he kicked his car's wheel with his right leg," her mother explained, the sound of café chatter and clinking cups faint in the background.

"His right leg? But wasn't that the one he sprained last year? Uncle Brighton really is testing fate," Ara huffed, a mix of concern and exasperation coloring her tone.

As her breathing steadied, Ara rose and exited her room in search of her father. She was descending the staircase at a brisk pace when her father materialized in the doorway leading to the kitchen, a leather bag slung over his left shoulder.

Her phone remained pressed to her right ear, the sound of her mother's panicked voice a stark contrast to the calm of the house. Ara couldn't help but think of her Uncle Brighton, whose antics often caused such chaos. Perhaps it was a family trait, she mused, given her mother's similar flair for the dramatic.

"Daddy!" she called out, her voice tinged with urgency.

Kristoff, her father, regarded her with a mix of concern and caution as she nearly tripped on the final step.

"What is it, princess? You look a bit pale. Is everything alright?" he inquired, his voice steady and calm.

She nibbled on her lower lip, a gesture of worry, before extending the phone towards him. His brow furrowed in confusion at the sight.

"Mom's on the other line. She couldn't get through your phone," Ara explained.

A moment of realization dawned on him. "Ah, that's because I can't find my phone," he admitted.

Clutching the phone, he strode towards the master bedroom, leaving Ara to ponder the unfolding situation.

Ara let out a weary sigh, her steps leading her to the sanctuary of the kitchen. She reached for a glass of water, her parched throat rebelling against the neglect. As the cool liquid quenched her thirst, her mind wandered through the labyrinth of her family's imperfect past.

Her mother's battle with addiction, a shadow cast by grief and despair, was an undeniable chapter of their history. Her father, too, had faced his own demons, his mind once a prisoner within the sterile walls of a mental institution. Ara was but six when tragedy struck, claiming her younger brother and leaving a void that echoed with her parents' nightly sobs. Yet, despite the darkness, they had loved them both equally, fiercely.

"Life isn't fair," they often said, a mantra that shaped Ara's existence. As the sole heir to a legacy marred by scandal, the weight of expectation bore down on her-to rise above, to be the beacon of perfection in a town that remembered every flaw.

"Princess! Your phone's on the ottoman in the living room," her father's voice called out, snapping her back to the present. "I'll be gone for an hour; your uncle needs me. Eat your lunch, okay? We'll be back before dinner. Bye! Love you, princess!"

The affection in his farewell brought a smile to Ara's lips. "Love you too, Dad! Take care!" she responded, her voice carrying the strength and warmth they had instilled in her.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, Ara took a hasty gulp of ice-cold water, the shock of it nearly causing her to choke. She shot a mock glare at the offending glass and pouted. "Crazy water," she muttered under her breath, her words a playful scold.

The glass clinked softly against the sink as she washed it, her mind already drifting to the next order of business. A cold bath was calling her name, a ritualistic cleanse after the heat of exercise. At nineteen, Ara found solace in the extremes-sweating out her frustrations and then washing them away under a cascade of chilling water.

Slipping into her white summer dress, she felt a wave of refreshment wash over her. The dress was a perfect choice for a solitary picnic in the town's park, a plan that suited her introverted nature. Alone time wasn't just okay for Ara; it was a cherished treasure.

The kitchen became a whirlwind of activity as she assembled her culinary delights: a hearty burrito, a fluffy omelette, and her beloved chicken sandwich. Each ingredient was chosen with care, promising a feast fit for a queen.

With her backpack checked, she was ready. Her cellphone, retrieved from the red ottoman, was tucked securely into her pocket. A quick text to her parents to inform them of her plans, and she was off.

The garage door creaked open to reveal her trusty bicycle, her chariot for the day's adventure. The park was a mere ten-minute ride away with her bicycle-compared to the twenty-minute walk on foot.

Pedaling through the streets, Ara couldn't help but marvel at the pristine beauty of their town. It was a gem within the city, a clean and peaceful haven that she considered a privilege to call home.

"Darling!"

The call, warm and familiar, cut through the gentle hum of the neighborhood. Arachnea's heart skipped a beat as she halted her bicycle, a wide smile blossoming across her face. There, under the shade of an old oak tree, stood Mrs. White, her eyes twinkling with a fondness that felt like a cozy blanket.

"Arachnea dear, it's a delight to see you today," Mrs. White's voice was a soft melody, her words floating like dandelion seeds in the breeze. "Heading to the park, are we?"

"Yup! Picnic time," Arachnea chirped, her voice a mix of excitement and a tinge of loneliness. "Mum and dad are out, so it's just me, myself, and I. Care to join me, Mrs. White?"

A chuckle escaped Mrs. White's lips, as gentle as the rustling leaves. "Oh, no dear. But I appreciate the offer. You've always had a way with solitude, haven't you? Just wanted to wish you a splendid afternoon."

Arachnea's cheeks flushed with warmth. "And a lovely afternoon to you too!"

Mrs. White's smile deepened, a soft glow in her eyes. "Thank you, darling. My son's off to the park as well, bowling with friends later on. Leaves me to my own devices."

The mention of her son, a recurring theme in their exchanges, sent a ripple of embarrassment through Arachnea. She knew the subtext, the unspoken matchmaking that danced in Mrs. White's gaze.

"Bowling does sound fun," Arachnea offered, her words light as she backed away. "But the call of the wild is strong today! See you, Mrs. White!"

With a laugh that mingled with the whisper of the wind, she pedaled off, leaving a trail of chuckles in her wake. Biting her lower lip, her eyes roamed over the lush tapestry of nature that unfolded around her. The world was her canvas, and her camera, her faithful companion, was ready to capture the symphony of moments that awaited.

***

Mary Joye.