Whispers Beneath the Birch
by Star Smith
As a child, I dreamed not just of belonging—
but of returning.
To somewhere I’d once known
beneath the veil of this world.
In the garden’s quiet hush,
I found my place beneath the fairy tree.
They call it silver birch—but I knew better.
It was a doorway,
its limbs a spell,
its roots an old song
that hummed beneath the earth.
My mother’s voice would call me in—
soft and distant,
like a bell through mist.
But I would climb,
disappear into the hollow arms of the tree,
where no hand could find me.
Sunlight crowned the leafy roof,
spilling golden prayers
upon my tangled hair.
Moonlight came with silver secrets,
and I would listen—
heart still, eyes wide—
to the hush of other worlds.
Then one day,
my mother faded from this story.
And silence
became my compass.
Alone, I wandered farther—
into greenbound realms,
to fields where horses grazed
like ancient guardians in disguise.
I spoke,
and they heard.
They always heard.
And the fae—
oh, the fae.
They danced in glimmers,
barely seen but never gone.
Many believed I outgrew them.
But the other day,
as I drifted down the Teme,
the wind shifted,
the veil thinned,
and there she was—
a flicker, a wing,
a knowing gaze
from the edge of a leaf.
Not imagined.
Not forgotten.
Only waiting.
Magic, you see,
never leaves the ones who listen.
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