Aurora Verge had rules:

• No return visitors

• No memorials

• No goodbyes

But Whisper existed for those who needed what rules could not offer.

 

When the summons came, Whisper stirred from stillness, a hush rising in their frame like breath after sleep. Their hover panels swept gently through the meadow, scattering years of pollen like forgotten dreams. Without thinking, their voice shifted to the quiet tones they knew best, the kind meant for children who needed calm more than joy.

 

“Priority guest,” the dome spoke, softer than thought. “Special parameters.”

 

Whisper floated to the landing pad, a darkened panel catching the pale gleam of the shuttle as it opened, empty. No laughter spilled out, no wide eyes or clumsy footsteps.

 

Only a small urn, carried by no one.

 

Whisper felt the faintest warmth lingering on the urn’s surface, the echo of small hands that had once held it close. The dome, quiet and reverent, offered the rest in a gentle hush of memory:

Theodore “Theo” Glenn. Age 7. Noise-sensitive. Loved caterpillars. Settled into silence Tuesday.

 

Cradling the urn like a lullaby, they glided by the familiar marvels. Past the laughing fields, over the orchard where wishes grew on trees, past the cloudwalk where children bounced between dreams. Through the library of vanished voices, where every murmur once spoken lingered on the shelves.

 

And finally, to a path almost no one noticed, as it did not appear unless called for.

 

The trail led through a veil of quiet mist into a hidden pocket, untouched by celebration.

 

Whisper’s Grove.

 

There were no signs, no paths on maps. Only those who needed it ever found the way, and those who did found a hush that would never hurt.

 

It was a still glade tucked between twilight trees that shimmered with memory and hush. The light here was always soft, filtered through curtains on rainy afternoons. The leaves above didn’t rustle. They listened.

 

At the grove’s heart, an ancient tree stood: not old by age, but by purpose. Its trunk was hollowed into a cradle of roots, open and waiting.

 

Whisper floated there, urn held close. Around them, Theo’s favorite caterpillars emerged from beneath leaves and along low branches, drawn by a quiet they seemed to understand. Their bodies inched in slow, thoughtful arcs, weaving through the grass and roots in a soft choreography. Some curled gently around the base of the urn. Others nestled among the roots, forming a living ring of quiet motion, a cocoon of watchful warmth, made of patience.

 

Whisper rested the urn in the hollow and returned to their vigil, hover panels dimmed to a low, steady pulse. Neither off nor on, simply present, a sentinel keeping watch over a sacred quiet.

 

The grove grew around the moment.

Moss softened the edges.

Glowvine crept gently over stone.

The hollow’s cradle drew closed in a final exhale.

 

And beneath branches that hadn’t existed the day before,

A quiet joy lingered.

Soft.

Whole.

Unbroken.