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Epilogue: The Song of the Whisps

The fire in Mr. Bramble’s bookshop burned low, filling the Hollow with soft crackles and golden light. Alder’s lantern glowed on the mantle, Poppy’s last crumbs of pie sat on a plate, and Lumen’s wings shimmered faintly in the shadows.

The villagers gathered close, little ones curled in blankets, Wormwood wriggling in his corner. Mr. Bramble adjusted his spectacles and cleared his throat.

“Now then,” he said with a smile, “there’s one more story tonight. Not mine, not yours, but the Hollow’s own. The song of the Whisps.”

The room hushed. Even the fire seemed to lean in.
And slowly, Mr. Bramble began to chant the old rhyme:

*“When shadows grow tall and the night feels too near,
The Whisps will remind you there’s nothing to fear.

A flicker, a flutter, a breeze through the trees,
A twinkle of starlight, a soft whispered ‘please.’

They’re never quite seen, yet they’re always around,
In rustles of leaves or a comforting sound.

They don’t shout or scold, they don’t push or demand,
They guide you as gently as holding your hand.

So listen with heart when the Hollow is still,
The Whisps will be with you — they always will.”*

The children joined in on the last lines, their voices rising like fireflies in the warm air. Outside the windows, a breeze stirred the branches, and for just a moment, a soft glow drifted between the trees.

No one said a word, but everyone felt it: safe, loved, and never alone.

Mr. Bramble shut the old book with a gentle thump. “And so, dear ones, you know the Hollow now. But remember — this is only the beginning. Many more tales wait along the Lanternleaf Path.”
The fire dimmed, the lanterns flickered, and the Hollow settled into sleep.

And somewhere in the quiet, the Whisps drifted on.