A new storybook series for kindred spirits of all ages.
Chapter Two of a ten-part illustrated tale written for readers young and old—for anyone who believes peace isn’t just the absence of conflict, but the presence of compassion, creativity, and community.
Tales From Republic Of Peace: Table Of Contents
Nim reached the edge of Fogwood just as the first hush fell.
It wasn’t the usual hush that came with twilight—the kind when leaves sigh and creatures curl into themselves. No, this was a different kind of quiet. An emptiness. The kind that made your ears feel like they were waiting for something… or someone… who never arrived.
She stopped.
Not a flutter. Not a chirp. Not even the rustle of wingbeats overhead.
The sky above Fogwood—usually embroidered with the silhouettes of swifts and finches—was blank. It had been days since anyone in Nim’s village had seen a bird, but she hadn’t realized how deeply the silence stretched until now. She looked down at her satchel, the one carrying the letter sealed with a golden feather.
Who still used feathers for ink stamps?
Who still sent handwritten notes in a Republic that now mostly whispered news through solar leaves and pollen posts?
Only someone who wanted to be remembered.
Nim slipped the envelope from her bag. The seal hadn’t cracked. It gleamed with the symbol of an ancient bird—its wings open wide in flight, a tiny olive branch curled in its claw. It wasn’t the Republic’s crest. It was older. Wilder.
Behind her, a voice stirred the silence.
“You came.”
Nim spun around to find herself facing a tall figure in a moss-colored cloak. The hood was drawn up, but she recognized the lilt in the voice. It was Wren, the apprentice to the old Archivist. He was known for knowing things no one else did—like the rainfall patterns of extinct islands or how to make tea from starlight blossoms.
He nodded toward the letter.
“Do you know what you’re holding?”
Nim shook her head.
“A Summoning Feather,” he whispered. “Only sent in times of grave unbalance.”
Nim swallowed. “Because the birds are gone?”
“Because something is stealing their songs,” he said. “And when the sky goes mute, so do the archives.”
She blinked. “You mean… the birds write the archives?”
“They carry the sound memory,” Wren explained, lowering his hood. “Each chirp, each call, is part of the ancient ledger. When they go silent, history forgets itself.”
A wind passed through the forest, bending the elder trees ever so slightly. Somewhere in the distance, something rattled. Not a bird. Not a squirrel. Something heavier. Watching.
Wren looked toward the deeper woods. “We must go.”
“To where?” Nim asked.
“To the Hollow of Echoes,” he replied. “Where the last whisper of every lost song still waits to be heard.”
And with that, they began walking.
Past hollow stumps that had once served as radios. Past glowing fungi that were used for navigation. Past a sign that once read, Welcome to Fogwood—Where All Voices Are Heard, now half-sunk in moss.
And above them, the sky held its breath.
To be continued…
Chapter Three: The Hollow of Echoes
When the sky forgets how to thunder, the elders gather to wonder why—and what the silence means for them all.
Tales From Republic Of Peace: Table Of Contents
