A girl through the title of Lisa Monroe lived in the sleepy town of Elderglen, between misty hills and whispering pine trees. She spoke softly, was graceful, and used to be continually a little bit mysterious.
Lisa wasn’t loud or flashy. She worked at the town’s little library, where she spent her days dusting ancient novels and recommending tales to kids with extensive eyes and muddy shoes. Everyone knew her, and every body favored her — but no one virtually knew her deeply. She appreciated it that way. She lived by way of herself in a white cottage close to the woods' edge. Her front porch was once surrounded via wildflowers, and a wind chime sounded whenever there was a breeze. She saved to herself, smiled often, and spoke with kindness.
Then, one day, Lisa became unwell. It appeared to be nothing serious at first: dry cough, fatigue, and a moderate headache. She shrugged it off, putting it down to the bloodless air or analyzing too lots at night. However, the signs grew to become greater bizarre. Her skin paled unnaturally. Her voice grew hoarse. Her memory started to slip, as even though the past was once being erased like chalk on a board.
The town’s doctor, old Dr. Farnham appeared at her and grinned. He spoke quietly, "It's not some thing I've seen before." "She's fading... but I do not be aware of how," I said. Lisa didn’t fight it. She common it as though she had anticipated it all along. She refused to go to the town hospital. She informed the humans in the town, "This is my home." "I'll remain the place I nonetheless can hear the trees," I say. People came through with soup, prayers, and hope — but nothing worked. Lisa lost weight. Her eyes, which had been as soon as a mild hazel, grew to be almost silver. Then some thing startling took place: **All the flora in her backyard commenced to wilt. At once. **
The roses, lilies, and even the cussed dandelions bowed and dried silently, as if in mourning. There were rumors. Some claimed that she had touched a cursed object. She was once only a spirit who temporarily assumed human form, in accordance to some whispers. She was in no way virtually human. But in her remaining days, Lisa solely informed the truth to one person: a younger female named Maggie, who used to come every week to read books about fairy kingdoms and stars. She heard Lisa whisper to her, "I'm now not afraid." “Some people die loudly. Others, like me, disappear gently… like a web page turning itself.”
That night, she perished. No harm. No shouting. Just a tender exhale, as the final leaf fell outside her window.
The reason was in no way found by means of the doctors. She did not show up to be ill on her body. They mentioned that her blood used to be oddly normal—"too normal"—when it was tested, as if she had clearly shut down. Under a silver birch tree, they buried her close to the forest's edge. Except for one, there are no flora there today. A bizarre, glowing blue bloom that no one has planted or named. Some people agree with Lisa's illness was once a curse. Others say it was once a blessing — a way lower back home to where she really belonged.
However, anyone agrees: **She left quietly.
But her thriller stayed behind. .
