A Lingering Echo

The familiar scent of her own bedroom, a comforting blend of lavender and slightly-too-old teddy bears, was the first thing Lily registered. Then came the sunlight, streaming through her window in broad, cheerful stripes, so different from the dappled, hushed light of the Whispering Woods. She wiggled her toes under the duvet, a slow, happy grin spreading across her face. She was home. Really, truly home.

It felt like a dream, a vivid, technicolor dream that still clung to the edges of her mind like dew on a spiderweb. She could still feel the phantom tickle of the sprites’ wings against her skin, still hear the rumble of Barnaby’s surprisingly hearty chuckle, still taste the faint, sweet memory of the berry tea he’d grudgingly shared. The Whispering Woods, the place where laughter had been a forgotten language, was now, she knew, a symphony of joyful noise. And it was all because of her. Her giggles, her clumsy tumble, her sheer, unadulterated delight.

She sat up, the bed creaking a familiar, friendly sound. Her room was exactly as she’d left it, a testament to the ordinary world she’d so abruptly left behind. But Lily wasn’t quite the same. Her eyes sparkled a little brighter, her movements were a touch more buoyant, and when a particularly strong sunbeam caught a dust mote dancing in the air, a tiny, involuntary giggle escaped her lips. It was a soft sound, barely a whisper, but it felt like a bell ringing in the quiet room.