Voices from the Other Side
The rain fell in thick sheets, distorting the world beyond her window into a watercolor of blurred colors and shadowy figures. In the quaint town of Eldridge Hollow, a storm was rolling in, but for eighteen-year-old Lucy Bennett, it was just another evening filled with restless thoughts and unresolved feelings. She looked out at the dismal landscape, her mind not focused on the rain but on the absence of her father, who had passed away two years prior.
It’s not that she hadn’t dealt with her grief, but rather that it had mutated into a kind of persistent ache, always lurking in the corners of her mind. She often found herself staring at the photograph on her desk, an image captured in happier times; her father’s easy smile and twinkling eyes a gentle reminder of the bond they once shared.
As thunder rumbled in the distance, pulling her away from her reverie, Lucy turned her attention back to the photo. "I miss you," she whispered into the silence. "I wish you could tell me what to do."
She leaned back in her chair, feeling the familiar weight of sorrow settle into her chest. The sorrow felt heavy but also oddly comforting, like an old blanket she wrapped around herself when she was lost. She shut her eyes, battling the loss that had become part of her identity.
Amidst her turmoil, a soft sound interrupted the stillness—a voice that seemed to echo faintly in the back of her mind. It was not her father’s voice, but it carried a similar warmth and familiarity. "Lucy…" it called.
Lucy shot up in her chair, heart racing. The voice felt real, as if it had breached the veil of her grief to reach her. But no. It must be her imagination. "Get a grip," she muttered, shaking her head. With a deep breath, she attempted to redirect her focus onto her schoolwork scattered across her desk.
Hours passed as she wrestled with algebra problems and essays, but the voice lingered at the edge of her thoughts, refusing to fade. Finally, fatigue clawed at her consciousness. She muttered a feeble curse under her breath and pushed her books aside, telling herself she would just lie down for a moment.
As she curled up in bed, tugging the covers tight around her, the storm outside intensified, the wind howling in a way that felt almost mournful. Lucy closed her eyes and surrendered to sleep.
In the heart of that restless night, she found herself submerged in a dream that transcended mere imagination. She stood on the edge of a misty forest, a landscape both beautiful and haunting. A grey fog loomed around her, swirling like whispers of lost souls. She looked down at her hands—their grip tightening around an unseen force, something electric that surged through her fingertips.
“Lucy…” The voice called again, clearer this time, echoing through the ethereal mist.
“Father?” she breathed, anxiety sharpening her senses. She took a step forward, and the mist parted, revealing a figure standing beneath a gnarled tree, its branches reaching out like skeletal fingers.
“Lucy, don’t be afraid.” A warm smile bloomed as the figure stepped into the hazy light, and her heart stopped. It was him. Her father, looking as she remembered him, alive and vibrant. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Is it really you?” Tears ran down her cheeks, and she felt a mix of disbelief and longing. “I miss you so much!”
He stepped closer, the mist swirling around him like a shroud, but his eyes remained bright. “I miss you too, sweetheart. But you need to listen. I can’t stay long. There are things I must tell you.”
“What things?” She shook her head, trying to comprehend the impossible. “How are you…here?”
“Sometimes, the line between our worlds is more fragile than we think,” he explained, his voice calm yet urgent. “I’m here because you need guidance, Lucy. Your path is filled with shadows.”
“What do you mean? What path? I’m just trying to survive!” Her heart raced, an instinctual fight-or-flight response kicking in.
“You’re running from your grief, from the truth. You must confront it before it consumes you,” his words were bittersweet, like ripened fruit hidden beneath barren branches.
Confusion clouded her mind. “But how? I don’t know what to do.”
He pointed toward the depths of the forest. “Follow the voices. They will lead you to the answers. Trust in the memories. They can guide you beyond this sorrow.”
“Wait!” she called, but her father faded back into the mist, leaving only the imprint of his warmth behind. In his place stood shadowy forms—vague outlines of people she couldn’t quite grasp.
“Follow us,” the voices murmured, intertwining in a song both melancholic and sweet. She felt an irresistible pull toward the forest, each step breaking through the cloud of despair that enveloped her.
As she entered the thicket, the world transformed. Shadows pulled on the edges of her vision, and suddenly, she was no longer alone. Figures danced around her—loved ones lost to time, friends whose faces were blurred by the years. They flowed like ethereal wisps, singing a mournful tune that echoed with love and loss.
“Who are you?” she asked, breathless from the sight before her.
“We are the memories,” one voice rang out, a gentle female tone. “We are the echoes of those you have lost.”
Lucy felt their presence, a tapestry of emotions weaving through her heart. “Can you help me?” she implored, desperation mingling with hope.
“Face your grief, Lucy. Welcome it as part of your journey,” came the collective response. “You must embrace the pain.”
“How?” The question hung in the air, fraught with longing and fear.
“By remembering and honoring,” they whispered, their voices intertwining like roots. “Visit us where we fell; pay your respects. Do not hide. We are all around you.”
The vision of the forest shifted, and Lucy stood before a gathering of gravestones, mist permeating the air. Each name engraved was a reminder of what she had lost, memories flashing like shooting stars across her mind. She felt the weight of sadness claw at her heart, yet the voices wrapped around her like a comforting embrace.
“Let go,” they urged. “Let go of the fear. You must cry for us, laugh for us, remember us. Feel our presence in every moment of joy and sorrow.”
With trembling hands, Lucy brushed her fingers against the cold stone of the nearest grave, and the floodgates opened. Her heart shattered as she sobbed, releasing all the pent-up grief she had carried within. Her voice rose, piercing the tranquility of the night while resonating with the souls around her.
“I love you! I’m so sorry!”
A surge of energy coursed through her as their stories intertwined with her own—a tide of shared memories, laughter echoing from days long past. Time crystallized, and for a fleeting moment, she felt their warmth; laughter and love woven through the very fabric of her being.
As her tears fell, she understood; she wasn’t just saying goodbye; she was also saying thank you. Each loss had shaped her into who she was becoming.
“Find your strength, Lucy,” came her father’s voice from the depths of her memory, resonating with comfort. “You have the power to carry us with you.”
When she finally pulled away, breathless and raw, she felt lighter somehow. The emptiness inside her had been filled with warmth, like sunlight breaking through the most stubborn clouds. The mist around her began to dissolve, the gathering of figures retreating into the shadows, leaving only whispers behind.
Lucy awoke the next morning to birds chirping outside her window, the sun shining brightly against a clear blue sky. For the first time in a long while, she felt a sense of peace wash over her. She reached for her phone, desperate to document the surreal experience, promising herself she would confront her grief head-on.
Days turned into weeks as Lucy poured her heart into creating a project that intertwined her memories with art. She visited the graves of loved ones, planting flowers and sharing stories with each passing visit, inviting the voices of the past into her everyday life. It was cathartic; it helped her understand that grief, now redefined, could exist alongside joy—a harmonious blend of remembrance and love.
In the evenings, she spent hours in her room, sketches and paintings emerging like blooms from the soil of her sorrow. Each stroke of the brush felt like a whisper from the other side, guiding her, listening to her.
Then one stormy night—much like the night of her dream—while brushing aside colors and textures on her canvas, Lucy heard it again. “Lucy…” The familiar voice called, drawing her attention away from her artwork.
Settled at the edge of her imagination, a vision of her father appeared once more, eyes bright.“There is much to celebrate, Lucy,” he said, his voice filled with warmth. “You are learning to listen, and in doing so, you are beginning to heal.”
Her heart swelled with emotion. “I’m trying,” she replied, wiping away a tear. “It feels…different now.”
“That’s because you are different. You have found your voice. A voice that will carry our love forward.”
Lucy smiled through her tears, realizing that she could carry him with her, in her heart, in her art, and in her every breath. The voices from the other side would never fade away; they were a part of her—always echoing in the colors of her memories.
As the storm raged on outside, painting the world anew, Lucy closed her eyes and embraced the stillness, feeling the familiar warmth envelop her like a hug, a promise of guidance that would never leave her side.
And as she painted, she found herself not just speaking to the spirits of her past, but inviting them to be part of her future, the connection growing deeper with every layer and every stroke—voices forever intertwining “from the other side.”
