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
If you were to trek just beyond the orchards of Solari, where the scent of citrus fades and the air begins to hum with an unfamiliar hush, you’d find a narrow cleft between two silver cliffs. It’s said that no compass works there. Birds hesitate. Even the wind tiptoes. The place is called the Hollow of Echoes—and it is not on any official map.
Children hear stories of voices trapped in stone, of giggles bouncing through mossy caves, and once, long ago, a scream that never stopped circling back. But the truth of the Hollow isn’t frightening. Not exactly.
It’s listening.
The Hollow had existed long before settlers founded the Republic. Some say even before the rivers remembered how to flow. And it’s in this curious place that our story continues, with a boy named Lumo and a fox named Wisp.
Lumo was no hero. He didn’t carry a sword or a prophecy. Just a satchel of old string, an apple, and a pebble he liked the shape of. He had come searching for his voice—literally. He hadn’t spoken since his mother disappeared in the Quiet Years, a time when sorrow had swept through parts of the land like a fog no sun could lift.
Wisp, on the other paw, was as chatty as a fox could be without ever saying a word. She had the kind of eyes that narrated thoughts and the kind of tail that punctuated them.
Together, they stepped into the Hollow, unaware that it would ask more of them than they had ever given.
The walls shimmered—not with light, but with memory. As they walked, Lumo heard faint sounds: laughter, lullabies, whispers of peace treaties never signed. But one sound followed him like a shadow.
“Lumo,” it breathed. A voice he hadn’t heard in years.
Wisp stopped. Her fur bristled, not from fear but recognition.
Lumo turned to the nearest wall and whispered, “Mama?”
And the wall answered—not in words, but in warmth, in a breeze that carried a fragrance he hadn’t smelled since childhood: wild chamomile and woodsmoke. His knees buckled.
But the Hollow doesn’t give without asking.
To leave with a voice, one must offer a sound. A truth. A wound. A confession.
Lumo sat beside Wisp and took the pebble from his satchel. “I was angry you left,” he said into the stone. “I pretended I didn’t miss you. But I did. Every day.”
He set the pebble down. The echo of his words lingered, then sank into the ground like rain.
And when he stood, his voice returned—not loud, not perfect, but real. He turned to Wisp and said, “Thank you.”
Wisp, in response, leaped onto a nearby stump and performed a ridiculous bow. Lumo laughed.
The Hollow returned the sound, multiplied, cascading like a series of bells.
As they left the canyon, the echo of that laugh danced behind them.
Back in Solari, people would later notice the boy had changed. He spoke now. Gently. Purposefully. He told stories. He listened better than most. And he began recording the voices of elders and children, of birds and rivers, keeping them safe for the times when silence became too loud.
The Hollow of Echoes had given him more than his voice. It had taught him how to hear.
To be continued…
Chapter Four: The Bridge Beneath the Lake
At the very heart of the Republic, nestled between the low hum of wind chimes and the swaying silver birches, lay a lake so still that it mirrored dreams more clearly than it mirrored clouds.
Lake Luma, they called it.
Tales From Republic Of Peace: Table Of Contents
Meditative Music Journey with a Noble Deer | Stillness of the Forest
