The Fountain

The garden was quiet, except for the wind brushing low through the olive branches. He knelt beside a worn stone, head bowed, fingers tangled like roots in the soil. Behind him, the others slept, curled into themselves, dreams tangled with dust and the scent of old leaves. A gate creaked somewhere far off, and the hush grew heavier, as if the earth itself knew what was coming. A man stepped from the shadows. They met without words. Only a brief touch—a hand to a shoulder, a gesture too familiar to be trusted. Behind him, figures approached with the slow confidence of those who carry permission. Firelight shimmered on steel and eyes, and the one who had come first stepped aside, his face unreadable as a shut door. It ended quickly. No arguments, no cries. Just the sound of feet on gravel and robes brushing stone. One man woke too late, lashing out in confusion, but the moment was already gone. The others scattered. The wind remained, pulling at the branches, whispering to no one in parti...

The sky was a wide mirror, brushed with clouds that moved like whispered thoughts. Squirrel and Rabbit stood in the tall grass, the kite between them a bright patchwork of hopes and old cloth. Rabbit, in his blue coat, insisted the tail be long, trailing like a comet’s fire. Squirrel disagreed. “Too much drag,” she muttered, but Rabbit’s eyes were filled with sky-dreams, and the ribbon fluttered like a spell in the breeze. They launched it together, breath held, paws trembling. The kite wobbled, dipped, then caught a whisper of wind and soared. Rabbit clapped; Squirrel beamed. But soon the string was a battleground—who held it longer, who steered better, who deserved more sky. They tussled, gentle as spring rain, paws pulling, hearts laughing, until the kite, forgotten in the bickering, danced out of control and nearly drowned itself in the cattail pond. With a gasp and a rush, they rescued it, their coats damp, eyes bright. Rabbit re-tied the tail—longer this time, in secret rebelli...

The cart wobbled with a stubborn left lean, its squeaky wheel announcing their slow progress down the bright aisles. He gripped the handle, steering awkwardly as she trailed her fingers over stacked cans and bags of rice, her eyes catching on the small details he might have missed. They moved with the gentle clumsiness of newness, like dancers learning each other’s steps. She reached for a bag of apples, the red skins shining like polished stones, and he watched the way her fingers curled around the stems, a quiet grace that made him smile. He added a box of spaghetti without a word, thinking of the simple meal they might share later, the steam rising between them, conversation folding into the quiet comfort of a shared table. They lingered in the produce section, the mist machines hissing like soft whispers as leafy greens glistened under the harsh, fluorescent light. She paused over the tomatoes, inspecting each one as if their future depended on the ripeness of the fruit. He held ba...

The rain had let up by the time he turned the corner for home, but the streets still glittered with puddles like dropped coins. His yellow slicker hung heavy on his shoulders, hood bouncing with each step. His shoes were soaked through, but he didn’t care. The puddles were wide and waiting, little worlds of sky and trees turned upside down. He chose the biggest and jumped straight in, water splashing high, laughter escaping before he could stop it. He knew the way home without thinking—past Mrs. Connelly’s hedge, the crooked mailbox that looked like it had a mouth. But today he made detours, zigzagging from puddle to puddle, skipping where he could, stomping where he shouldn’t. The rain had turned the world into something magical. Each splash a sound from some wild music only kids could hear. In the distance, the clouds pulled apart slowly, like curtains, and a stripe of sunlight ran down the street. His mother opened the door before he knocked. She didn’t scold him. Not yet. She looke...

He sat on the porch after sundown, where the wind stirred the trees just enough to remind him they were alive. The dog lay curled at his feet, breathing slow, content with the nearness. There were no meetings now, no clocks ticking loud with expectation. Only the hush of twilight and the old ache of knowing the days ahead would come one at a time, softer than before, but never promised. He looked at his hands—worn, steady, empty of tools—and thought how strange it was to be useful once, and now simply   present . In the stillness, the machines didn’t hum. They listened. The old radio on the windowsill, the clock without a second hand, the little garden lights glowing faint like memory. Everything mechanical had paused, like they understood this moment didn’t need noise. He thought of all the times he ran fast enough to stay ahead of his thoughts, and how now, they caught up easily. Regret, love, wonder—walking alongside him like old friends who never left, only waited. He poured a ...

In the bright gold of morning, Rabbit declared, “We need tennis shoes.” It was not a question, but a thunderbolt, flung from the clouds of his imagination. Squirrel, nibbling toast made from bark and marmalade, nodded thoughtfully. Shoes for running—not from danger, but toward wonder. They set off, past the thistle fields and the mossy stump that sold newspapers, past the corner where yesterday’s stories whispered in the wind. They arrived at the Old Shoe Tree, where shopkeeper Owl wore pince-nez and sold shoes from laces hung on branches. Rabbit tried on a pair too big, sky-blue with orange tongues that flopped like clown feet. Squirrel found a pair with springs in the soles and declared she could now leap over the moon, but promptly fell into a rain barrel instead. “They don’t fit right,” she sputtered, soaked and proud. Owl frowned and muttered about feet that weren’t feet, paws that didn’t obey rules of heel and arch. Still, Rabbit bought the clown shoes, and Squirrel chose the lea...

Time must stop now. Just for a while. Just long enough for me to gather the threads before they unravel into the noise again. Every time I write like this, I’m sure I’m breaking a dozen invisible laws—the kind written in chalk dust on a school blackboard, next to Newton’s apple and Einstein’s scrawl. But I was never good at science. I was always wondering if trees dreamed or if dogs understood goodbyes. So let’s begin. On my desk is a page from a calendar, the kind made to be torn one day at a time, as if life could be measured in paper and paw prints. Jack Russells filled the year, one for each square of morning. But one page stayed. A little brown and white dog stood alone in a field, his face wearing a sorrow only animals seem allowed to show. Beneath him, the caption:   “Being left behind is the saddest feeling a dog can have.”   And somehow, it was truer than anything I’d learned from a textbook. They say dogs don’t know time. That a minute or a day—it all blurs into the ...

The stone angel stood at the edge of the old cemetery, her wings streaked with moss and time. Rain had worn soft grooves down her cheeks, as if she wept slowly for a century. The man came often, never speaking, just watching her with the kind of reverence that didn’t ask for answers. In his hand, a folded paper with a name no longer spoken aloud. He remembered his mother telling stories under that angel’s gaze, of people who loved deeply, lost quietly, and kept walking anyway. The stories were not grand, just honest — a boy who left for war and never came back, a girl who grew roses too close to the frost. The angel listened then too, stone lips sealed, wings like pages that would never turn. One morning, after the frost had lifted and the grass held the golden edge of spring, he left the paper at her feet. It wasn’t a letter, just a list of names — people he missed, people who made him. He turned and walked away, the wind brushing past like a whispered farewell; morning light in h...

The sun dropped behind the trees like a coin slipping through worn fingers. A stillness settled on the porch where the man sat, arms resting on his knees. Across the open field, shadows lengthened and the sky turned the color of old denim. He lit a match, watched it flare, then die just as quickly. The day had left quietly, without fuss or farewell. Then came the first glimmer—a pale smudge against the deepening blue. Slowly, patiently, the moon climbed, round and sure, like it had somewhere to be. It rose behind the pines with a light that did not shout but whispered, a ghost of silver spilling across rooftops and fenceposts. The man stood and watched it rise, as if it had come just for him,  just for tonight. Children would dream beneath it, and lovers would trace its light with fingers and promises. But he stood alone, feeling time stretch wide beneath the moon’s cool eye. It reminded him of things he had once known and things he had yet to understand. And for now, that was enou...

He stood at the gas station payphone with one hand clenched around a folded piece of paper and the other shaking on the receiver. The words were simple—directions scribbled in fading ink, a name he hadn’t said aloud in fifteen years, and a question too heavy for breath. The wind pulled at his jacket like a ghost with somewhere to be. He didn’t know if he was running toward something or just trying not to drown in what he’d left behind. In the sky, clouds gathered like gossip. Somewhere down the highway, a diner light flickered to life, yellow and tired. He remembered that place. She had poured his coffee and called him “sugar,” not out of flirtation but mercy. He had never deserved it. Not then. Maybe not now. But the line rang once, then twice. He could still hang up. He could still walk away. A boy in the parking lot dropped his ice cream, looked up at the man with a face that expected the world to be kind. The man stared at him, saw the boy he used to be, praying in his grandma’s ki...

She arranged the flowers in the morning, just after coffee. The light was soft and golden through the porch arches, the kind of light that made even the dust look holy. She didn’t trim the stems evenly—let them tilt and wander the way wild things do. Zinnias, snapdragons, larkspur, strawflower. Some bent from their own weight, others leaned out as if reaching for a story. She had grown them herself and cut them with hands still wet from watering the garden. By afternoon, the glass vase caught sun like a prism. Bees skirted the porch, curious but polite. The arrangement wasn't meant to be perfect—too many colors, too much movement—but it breathed. It remembered wind. The blooms seemed to hold old conversations: quiet apologies, garden laughter, the hush between thunder and rain. She sat near them, not to admire, but to be near something that understood change without needing to say a word. When the evening came and shadows stretched long over the porch floorboards, she didn’t move t...

The shed sat quiet under the high morning sun, its rusted roof catching light like an old man tipping his hat. Ivy had claimed one side, creeping slow and green, as if to keep the place from disappearing. He opened the door with the weight of memory behind his shoulder. Tools hung like questions unanswered. A rake. A pair of gloves. The saw he’d used to build a fence in ’78. It smelled of earth, dust, and time. Not musty, just lived-in. A place where stories were told without words. His father had stood in that corner, sharpening blades. His boy had once spilled a box of nails and laughed, crouched low, gathering them like treasure. Now the boy was a man with a mortgage and a lawnmower that didn’t need fixing. And the old shed waited, a chapel of small things. He didn’t stay long. Just enough to sweep the floor and oil the hinges. He left the door cracked, same as always, so the air could pass through and the birds could nest above the window. Walking back toward the house, he didn’t t...

He awoke each morning to the first cold light slipping through the cracked blinds, his mind anchored in the present like a ship chained to the ocean floor. Time had no sway over him beyond the pulse of his own breath, the creak of the floorboards beneath his feet, the whisper of his worn jacket slipping onto his shoulders. Outside, the street murmured with the shuffle of newspapers against doorsteps, the clatter of garbage cans, the low rumble of a bus rounding the corner. He moved through it all, a ghost to the past and blind to the future, a man marooned in the endless now. At the corner café, he slipped into his usual chair, the one with the cracked vinyl and a leg that wobbled just enough to feel familiar. The hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of glassware, the soft scrape of a spoon against porcelain filled his ears. He wrapped his hands around the warm cup, the steam rising into his face, the bitter tang of coffee settling on his tongue. Conversations swirled around him, th...

The branch came from the live oak near the creek, gnarled and just the right shape. The man held it up to the sun and turned it in his hands. “This’ll do,” he said. The boy nodded, eyes wide, hands tucked in his pockets to keep from reaching too soon. They sat on the porch steps with a knife that had skinned peaches and cut rope, and now shaved bark down to the smooth core. The twine came from the shed. It smelled of old hay and forgotten summers. They tied it tight, looping through the tongue of a shoe long outgrown, leather cracked but strong. The man tested the stretch of the rubber bands—pulled from the drawer where batteries and buttons lived—and gave the boy a wink. “You’ll have to learn to aim straight,” he said. “It’s more than just pull and let go.” When it was done, the boy held it like a relic. Not a toy, but a rite. They walked to the edge of the field where pine cones lay in soft piles. The first shot missed by a mile. The second thudded low. But the third—a whistling arc—...

He woke each morning to the golden edge of the sun, not as a promise, but as a simple fact of light and warmth. The past held nothing for him, its ghosts wrapped in whispers too distant to catch. He walked through the streets with his head up, eyes tracing the way shadows leaned, how leaves trembled in the wind’s breath. The future was a foreign place he had never set foot in, and so he moved as if every step were a fresh stroke on an unfinished canvas, the kind of life where every heartbeat felt like the first and the last. At the corner bakery, the scent of fresh bread, the warm crackle of crust as it split, filled his senses. He lingered over his coffee, watched the steam twist into thin, invisible fingers before vanishing into the morning air. He smiled at the woman in the blue dress who nodded back, her eyes with a kindness that needed no words. He felt the cool ceramic of his cup, the slight give of the chair beneath him, and the brush of his worn sleeve against the table's e...

They stacked the kindling with the care of gardeners planting in spring, each piece laid with purpose. The crackle of the first flame whispered against the cool evening air, stretching shadows over the stone ring. She poured the wine, her fingers steady, the burgundy swirl catching the firelight. He watched the flicker dance in her eyes, knowing that the best parts of yesterday still lingered in the warmth of their touch, the creak of the old wooden swing, the quiet of their early mornings. As the fire grew, they leaned back in their worn, woven chairs, the heat brushing their faces, pushing back the chill. They spoke of places they’d seen, roads they’d wandered, the laughter of children echoing like distant chimes. He reached for her hand, their fingers entwined like the roots of an old tree, deep and enduring. They remembered the storms they had weathered, the bright sunrises after the long nights, and the promises they had kept without ever speaking them aloud. In the fading light, ...

In the golden hush of a late afternoon, the library stood like a ship moored in time, its doors parting with a sigh as Squirrel and Rabbit tiptoed inside. The scent of old paper, leather, and a thousand whispered secrets wrapped around them like ivy. “It’s bigger on the inside,” said Rabbit, wide-eyed. Squirrel darted ahead, tail twitching with delight, hopping from table to table, whispering titles like they were spells:   The Clockmaker’s Son ,   Tales from the Rain-Soaked Forest ,   How to Read the Wind. Somewhere between the biographies and the oversized atlases, they lost each other. Rabbit searched through aisles that felt like hedgerows, each step echoing like a heartbeat. He called out softly— Squirrel? —but only the flutter of pages replied. Meanwhile, Squirrel curled up beneath a skylight in the Poetry section, reading aloud to no one, his voice rising like music into the rafters. Stories wrapped around him like warm quilts, and time, as it does in all true libr...

I n the golden spill of a late spring afternoon, Rabbit bounded down the cracked sidewalk, coat flapping like a flag of purpose, chattering about the indie romance at the Elm Street Cinema—the one with subtitles and soul. Squirrel, wiry and skeptical, scampered beside him with paws crossed and tail flicking like a metronome of disapproval. “Soul is overrated,” she said. “We need explosions. Car chases. A hero with a tragic backstory and a flamethrower.” They stopped in front of the ticket booth, the marquee humming above them like a sleeping carnival, each animal staring at the other with the full measure of their stubborn affection. Inside, under the velvet hush of movie house air and carpet that smelled faintly of rain and old candy, they met their second skirmish: popcorn. “Butter is the language of cinema,” Rabbit declared, already reaching for the dispenser like a poet drawing breath. Squirrel shuddered. “It’s an oil slick in a paper bag. You’ll ruin the texture.” They negotiated ...

The tea was warm, the air still, and the sky a quiet shade of blue that made everything feel safe. They sat together beneath a hedge trimmed low, Rabbit in his worn coat and Squirrel nibbling sugar from the rim of her saucer. No one said much. They didn’t need to. The cake was chocolate, soft and thick, and the plates clinked gently like old friends toasting without words. A butterfly passed overhead, lazy in its drift, while a sparrow circled once and landed nearby, more curious than cautious. The bluebird tapped at a crumb. “It’s time for tea,” said Rabbit at last. And Squirrel nodded, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin stitched by paw and patience. The world, in that moment, was no larger than the tablecloth beneath them and the soft ticking of afternoon. Time, they knew, was made of days like this—of quiet companions, simple sweetness, and the kind of talk that comes only when there’s nothing pressing to say. Squirrel finished her cup and leaned back on her tail, smiling into the b...

The morning air carried the clean bite of sunlight and the slow drift of a cool breeze. She pulled the basket to the line, its wicker sides worn smooth from years of holding damp linens and worn denim. Wooden clothespins clacked against each other like the bones of old conversations as she reached for the first sheet, unfurling it against the blue of the sky. The fabric whispered between her fingers, cool and damp, catching the light as it rose. She pinned it at the corners, a practiced twist of her wrist, the wood catching with a soft, satisfying click. A summer dress, thin and bright, followed, its floral print fluttering like a half-remembered dance, then thick towels that still held the faint warmth of the morning’s wash. Jeans, stiff and blue, their pockets sagging with the weight of worn-in memories, joined the line. She stretched on her toes, reaching for the higher line, the cool grass under her feet a reminder of the earth’s steady presence. The wind stirred, filling the cloth...

The old trees rose, their trunks thick with years, bark rough as the hands of men who had worked the same earth for generations. They stretched toward the light, branches reaching like the fingers of a giant waking from a long, slow dream. The sun, caught in the spaces between their limbs, scattered down in fractured beams, illuminating the green canopy and painting the air in a soft, trembling light. Beneath the trees, the air was cool, alive with the whisper of leaves that never truly stopped moving. Birds darted among the branches, shadows flickering like memories of youth, and the deep, resinous scent of sap clung to the air. The trunks, scarred and furrowed, spoke of years spent standing through storms, their roots thick and twisted, hidden beneath the moss and leaves of a dozen summers gone. Above, the sky hinted at blue, but here, in this cathedral of leaves, the world felt smaller, closer, wrapped in the breath of the living wood. The trees swayed in a slow, ancient dance, and ...

  The boy knelt beside the garden path, his fingers brushing against the damp leaves, the morning dew clinging to his skin. He watched as the first ladybug crawled from beneath a broad, green leaf, its crimson shell glistening in the early sun. He marveled at the black spots, small constellations on a polished sky. The world around him felt immense and ancient, yet here, in this patch of sunlight, time held its breath for a moment. He thought of how his grandmother whispered that ladybugs brought luck, each one a tiny blessing in a chaotic world. The garden was alive with the slow, methodical pulse of life, the hum of bees, the sway of grasses, and the rustle of small creatures hidden from view. He leaned closer, his breath stirring the fragile wings of a second ladybug as it took flight, tracing a slow arc through the air. It landed beside the first, its tiny legs grasping the curved surface of a rose petal. He smiled, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face, the rich, loamy sce...

The ice cream man rolled through the neighborhood, his truck churning slowly over the sun-baked pavement. The jingle of his music cut through the thick summer air, a bright, tinny tune that called kids from shaded porches and backyard sprinklers. He leaned forward over the wide steering wheel, his forearm tanned and strong, the smell of engine oil and sweet cream mingling in the narrow cab. He watched the children spill onto the sidewalks, their voices sharp and hopeful, like the first burst of fireworks on the Fourth of July. He eased to a stop at the corner, the engine rattling into idle, and slid open the glass hatch. Cold air billowed out, wrapping him in the familiar scent of vanilla and sugar, the faint tang of dry ice. The children, their faces bright with summer, gathered like swallows, coins clutched in tight fists, shouting orders through the rippling heat. He moved with the slow, practiced hands of a man who has sold a thousand cones, who knows the feel of each wrapper, the ...

The pocket watch was heavy in his hand, its brass casing warm from decades of touch. It had the feel of something meant to last, the glass face faintly scratched, each line a mark of passing years. The minute hand moved in a steady circle, a heartbeat of metal and spring, its ticking a whisper against his palm. The back was engraved in worn script. It read like the echo of a promise, a pledge from one life to another. It had crossed muddy trenches, clasped in the trembling hands of a soldier, ticking through the smoke and fear. It had sailed open seas, a ship’s captain pulling it from his pocket to mark time against the endless horizon. It had sat beside a doctor’s stethoscope, counting heartbeats in quiet rooms, and waited in the nervous grip of a young groom, his polished shoes tapping against the chapel floor. Now it rested in the palm of the man on his porch, the autumn wind rustling the pages of a favorite book of poems on the table next to his chair. He felt the weight of it, the...

He sat at the end of the dock with the sun falling like honey on the lake. His grandson had asked him again to tell the story—the one about the war, or the mountain, or the girl with red hair, they all blurred now. But he told it different this time. Softer. As if the edges had worn down with the years, and the parts that once shouted now only whispered. When the boy asked, “Why would you tell the story that way?” he only smiled and skipped a stone. Because sometimes, he thought, the truth lives not in the facts but in the way you fold them. Like sheets in an old cedar chest—creased, fragrant, a little yellowed. He didn’t want to tell it the way it happened. He wanted to tell it the way it felt. “Maybe because I remember it different now,” he finally said. “Or maybe because some things don’t need to hurt every time you say them out loud.” The boy looked at him, not sure he understood. But he would. One day. When the sun had aged him too, and the lake was a memory, and he’d be the one a...

The boy sat on the edge of his bed, his freshly shined shoes beneath him, the soft light of a Sunday morning cutting through the lace curtains. His mother had buffed the scuffs from the leather, each swirl of the cloth a reminder of her gentle hands, the smell of polish lingering in the air like the incense that would soon fill the church. But as he tugged the laces tight, the right one snapped, fraying into a burst of thin, stubborn fibers, its long loyalty finally spent. He sat frozen, staring at the broken cord, the panic of tardiness rising like the slow swell of the organ. With a child’s ingenuity and a touch of desperation, he pulled the ends together, knotting them in a hasty, uneven twist, threading the frayed tips back through the polished eyelets. The laces stretched thin, holding their breath as he worked, his fingers trembling with the fear of another break. He pulled them tight again, the knot hidden beneath the tongue, the tension felt with every small movement of his toe...

The old man leaned against the counter of the outfitter’s shop, his eyes drifting over the rows of walking sticks, each one a testament to the craft of hands that had known the shape and grain of wood for decades. He reached out, feeling the cool, polished length of a hickory staff, its grain tight and strong, marked by the faint scars of seasons spent bending in mountain winds. It was sturdy, made to bear the weight of years and miles, its grain running straight and true, a promise whispered in the creak of timber and the whisper of pine needles. Near the end of the row, his fingers brushed against something different, a staff topped with a handle of polished elk horn, the curve of it smoothed by the passage of time, each ridge and line a record of its life. It fit his hand with a comfort that felt earned, the cold bone warming quickly to his touch. He imagined the animal it once belonged to, the great rack held high, velvet peeling in the sharp air of autumn, the crack of branches be...

He wasn’t sure when it began—only that it came on quiet feet, like morning light slipping under the door. One day, he noticed the coffee tasted richer. The dog’s tail thumped louder. The sky, though unchanged, looked bluer somehow. There had been no great event, no miracle. Just a series of soft moments piling up until he looked around and realized he hadn’t been sad in a while. It was in the folding of warm laundry, the smell of basil on his fingers from the garden, the way the woman he loved touched his arm when she laughed. Happiness wasn’t loud. It didn’t shout or demand attention. It lived in the spaces between—between heartbeats, between sips of tea, between words spoken at just the right time. It didn’t need a reason. It simply   was . He still remembered pain. It sat on the shelf like an old photograph, part of the story but no longer the whole. Now, he lived inside a slow and steady peace. Each day became a kind of prayer—not the kind spoken aloud, but the kind whispered t...

The meadow whispered in greens and golds, a gentle breath caught between daylight and dream. A place where time forgot itself, where the wind moved like a slow exhale, brushing through the wild grass and carrying the faint, sweet perfume of early summer blossoms. Hints of lavender and crushed clover rose with each passing breeze, their colors bleeding into the air like watercolors on wet paper. A boy wandered there, his bare feet pressing softly into the damp earth, leaving only the faintest impression before the grass sprang back. He held his arms wide, fingertips grazing the dew-beaded blades, eyes half-closed against the hazy light. For him, this place was a sanctuary, a hidden world wrapped in layers of green and mist, where his thoughts flowed freely like a gentle creek, unburdened by the harsh lines of the waking world. At the heart of the meadow, where the sunlight painted the air in hues of chartreuse and violet, he paused. Here, the shadows played tricks, whispering forgot...