Whispers From The Past

“The Girl in the Photo on her wall blinked.”

Deenie almost choked on her lukewarm Earl Grey. Spluttering, she scattered droplets across her worn floral armchair. Convinced it was exhaustion playing tricks on her, she blinked. Chaos and stress had filled her life for the past few months. Sloping ceilings and mismatched furniture made her cramped attic room a breeding ground for odd shadows and peculiar angles.

An ancient photo in an antique frame. It was a picture of her great-grandmother, Geraldine, a woman with eyes the colour of storm clouds and a stubborn set to her jaw. Geraldine had been Deenie’s namesake, and the woman she’d always felt a strange connection with, despite not remembering her. She had died not long after Deenie turned one. The photo was all that remained, a window into a life lived in a sepia-toned past.

Deenie focused, her heart thrumming a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Geraldine, a figure frozen in time, stared back. But this time, the static, painted-on gaze was different. Now, there was a flicker of something… awareness?

She stared harder. The girl in the photo, Geraldine, blinked again.. A tiny, almost imperceptible movement, but she was sure she saw it.

Deenie stood, her legs shaky. She approached the wall, her hand outstretched, hovering over the faded photograph. The frame felt warm beneath her fingertips.

“This can’t be happening,” she whispered, the words audible above the creaking of the old house.

She pulled the photo from the wall, struggling to dislodge it from its place. Holding it closer, she noticed details she’d never seen before. The delicate lace collar, the way the light caught in Geraldine’s dark hair, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Then Geraldine cleared her throat—a soft, papery sound, like the rustling of autumn leaves.

Deenie’s breath hitched. “Hello?” she stammered, feeling foolish as she spoke to the old photo.

The voice that answered was fragile, like spun glass. “Can you hear me?”

Deenie stumbled back, almost tripping over a stack of books. “Yes! I can hear from you! Who... who are you?”

“It’s me, Geraldine,” the photograph whispered. “Your great-grandmother.”

Deenie’s mind reeled. This was beyond impossible, beyond any logical explanation. But the voice, the eyes that now seemed to follow her every move, were authentic.

“But... how? You’re a photograph,” she managed, still grasping for a shred of sanity.

“Time is a funny thing, Deenie,” Geraldine said, her voice gaining a little strength. “Sometimes, the threads between generations grow thin, and voices can carry across the years.”

Deenie sank back into the armchair, the photo clutched in her hand. “What do you want?”

“I came to help you,” Geraldine said. “You are so sad, and I can feel your pain. I want you to know you are not alone.” Deenie felt a tear trickle down her cheek. It had been a rough couple of months. She’d lost her job, her husband had left her, her kids considered her a burden, and people she had considered friends had turned their backs on her..

“How can you help?” Deenie asked, her voice thick with emotion.

“Tell me what troubles you,” Geraldine replied, melancholy, filling her voice. “Perhaps I can offer some perspective. I did not always have a simple life, you know.

Deenie hesitated, then the dam broke. Before the picture of her great-grandmother, she revealed her heart. Job loss, crushing failures, and loneliness were all topics she spoke of. Geraldine learned about her great-granddaughter’s unrealized dreams.

As she spoke, Geraldine listened, her eyes, once stormy, now filled with a gentle understanding. When Deenie finished, exhausted, Geraldine said again, her voice soft but firm.

“Life throws stones, Deenie. It has always, and it will always. But it is how you choose to pick yourself up, dust the dirt off, and keep walking that defines you,” Geraldine said. “Your pain is real, but it is not the end. It is a beginning. A chance to rebuild, to redefine yourself.”

Deenie wiped her eyes, surprised by the strength in Geraldine’s words. “But how? I don’t know where to start.”

“Start with the small things,” Geraldine advised. “Find joy in everyday life. Write. You took a creative writing class in high school. It was your favorite class. You have notebooks full of story ideas. Even if it’s just a sentence or a paragraph, let your words flow. And remember, you are not alone. I am here, and the strength of our ancestors runs through your veins.”

Over the next few weeks, Deenie spent hours talking to Geraldine. The photograph became her confidante, her mentor, her friend. Geraldine shared stories of her own life, of the hardships she had faced, the loves she had lost, and the triumphs she had celebrated. Deenie listened, captivated, drawing strength and inspiration from Geraldine’s resilience.

Deenie healed. Pouring her emotions onto the page, she began to write. Enjoying nature’s beauty, she would take long walks in the park. Developing new interests, she also found new friends who cared for her. At a local animal shelter, she even began volunteering, finding comfort amongst the animals.

One evening, weeks after their first conversation, Deenie sat in her armchair, the photo of Geraldine resting on her lap. She smiled, a genuine smile that reached her eyes.

“Thank you, Geraldine,” she whispered. “You saved me.”

Geraldine’s eyes twinkled in the fading light. “You saved yourself, Deenie. I reminded you of the strength you already possessed.”

Then, with a final, gentle blink, Geraldine fell silent. The photograph returned to its static state, the painted-on gaze fixed on a world long gone. But Deenie knew, deep in her heart, that Geraldine was still with her, a guiding spirit, a timeless connection that transcended the boundaries of time and space. Deenie put the picture back on the wall and went to the kitchen. Thinking about her next writing project, she started boiling some water. A smile touched her lips as she thought of her great-grandmother. Going to her desk, she opened her laptop after making a cup of Earl Grey tea and finding the bookmark for one of her favorite story sites. She clicked on the section where they offered challenges and selected the current challenge. Clicking on ‘Challenge entry,’ she whispered, “I now know what to do.”

Deenie’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, a newfound excitement buzzing within her. The lukewarm Earl Grey, a stark contrast to the first cup that had started this impossible journey, steamed beside her. This time, there was no spluttering, only a steady breath. The chaotic stress of the past months had untangled, replaced by a quiet determination.

She looked at the photo on the wall, the sepia tones now seeming to glow with a faint inner light. Geraldine’s gaze remained fixed, yet Deenie sensed Geraldine’s comforting, wise presence. The connection hadn’t vanished; it had shifted, becoming an internalized strength rather than an external voice.

“I know what to do,” she whispered again, a smile spreading across her face. The challenge entry form blinked on her screen, a blank canvas awaiting her words. She didn’t need to search for inspiration; it was bubbling up from within, a story she had to tell. It wouldn’t be a fantastical tale of a photograph coming to life, not literally, not for the world to see in that way. But it would be a story about resilience, about the invisible threads that connect generations, about finding solace and strength in unexpected places when everything else falls apart.

As she typed, her fingers flew across the keys. She wrote about loss, about the crushing weight of loneliness, about believing she was alone. And then, she wrote about a whisper on the wind, a memory, a feeling, a deep-seated ancestry that stirred within her, reminding her of the strength of those who came before. In her writing, she described rediscovering her voice, not only for speaking, but for creating. Volunteering gave her small joys, quiet walks, furry companions, and a fresh start, all of which she wrote about. She described a stronger-than-ever foundation built, brick by painful brick.

Deenie wrote late into the night, the words flowing, each sentence a testament to her journey. The cramped attic room no longer felt like a prison of shadows, but a sanctuary of creation. The mismatched furniture seemed to hum with purpose, reflecting the new harmony she was building within herself.

When she leaned back, stretching her arms, the first rays of dawn were peeking through the narrow window. The screen glowed, hundreds of words laid bare, a piece of her soul poured onto the digital page. She felt lighter, unburdened, profoundly at peace.

She submitted her entry, a quiet click that marked not an end, but a powerful new beginning. Deenie took a deep breath, the scent of Earl Grey still lingering in the air. She knew the path ahead wouldn’t be without its challenges, but she also knew, with every fibre of her being, that she was no longer walking it alone. The strength of Geraldine and all the women who came before rippled through her, an eternal current guiding her forward. She was ready.