"Once Upon a Time..." (Image and Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
Whispers in the Wind
The old man walked slowly down the gravel road, the soles of his worn boots scraping against the uneven stones. The January wind bit at his cheeks, a reminder that winter had a way of stripping everything down to bare bones. The road stretched out before him, empty and quiet, a path that once led to something full of life. Now, it only seemed to lead to silence. He could see the bare outlines of the old silos through the trees, their broken roofs half-sunk into the sky like the forgotten remnants of a long-lost dream.
The barn had collapsed long ago, the foundation still visible, overtaken by wild trees and thick brush. It was strange to think about how the place had once hummed with work—hay bales piled high, the scent of fresh silage hanging thick in the air. In the heat of summer, there had been the constant sound of cows lowing, of boots on the barn floor, of calls echoing over the fields. Morning and evening, the chores had stretched long into the day, like a rhythm as steady as the seasons.
Now, the only sound was the wind in the trees, rustling through the empty fields, where nothing grew anymore.
He paused for a moment, squinting against the gray sky. He hadn’t thought about the farm in years. Not since he was a boy. Or maybe since he was a young man, working summers during college. Those were the days when the world had felt full of promise, when he thought that hard work could carve out a future.
The farmhouse was gone, of course. He couldn’t even remember when it had disappeared—maybe a fire, or maybe just time and neglect. The land had been sold off piece by piece, the fences falling apart. But he still remembered the smell of the barn, the soft clatter of hooves, the creaking of the old windmill as it turned lazily in the hot summer breeze. He could hear the sounds in his mind—laughter, conversation, the hum of life.
And now, nothing. Just the empty fields and the silos that seemed more like tombstones than symbols of productivity. It wasn’t just the land that had disappeared. It was the people. All those who had worked it, tended it, lived on it. Gone, one by one.
He wondered if the land missed them too.
The old man stood for a long time, letting the wind brush over his face. The chill of January had seeped deep into his bones, but there was something oddly peaceful about it. Perhaps it was the quiet, the solitude. There was a comfort in knowing that things could disappear, that time could pass, and yet the world kept on spinning. The fields might be empty now, but they had once been full, and maybe that was enough.
With a final glance at the broken silos, the old man turned back down the road, his boots crunching softly in the gravel. He didn’t need to say goodbye. Some things didn’t need words.
And the wind, as it swept through the trees, seemed to agree.
~Wylddane
The old man walked slowly down the gravel road, the soles of his worn boots scraping against the uneven stones. The January wind bit at his cheeks, a reminder that winter had a way of stripping everything down to bare bones. The road stretched out before him, empty and quiet, a path that once led to something full of life. Now, it only seemed to lead to silence. He could see the bare outlines of the old silos through the trees, their broken roofs half-sunk into the sky like the forgotten remnants of a long-lost dream.
The barn had collapsed long ago, the foundation still visible, overtaken by wild trees and thick brush. It was strange to think about how the place had once hummed with work—hay bales piled high, the scent of fresh silage hanging thick in the air. In the heat of summer, there had been the constant sound of cows lowing, of boots on the barn floor, of calls echoing over the fields. Morning and evening, the chores had stretched long into the day, like a rhythm as steady as the seasons.
Now, the only sound was the wind in the trees, rustling through the empty fields, where nothing grew anymore.
He paused for a moment, squinting against the gray sky. He hadn’t thought about the farm in years. Not since he was a boy. Or maybe since he was a young man, working summers during college. Those were the days when the world had felt full of promise, when he thought that hard work could carve out a future.
The farmhouse was gone, of course. He couldn’t even remember when it had disappeared—maybe a fire, or maybe just time and neglect. The land had been sold off piece by piece, the fences falling apart. But he still remembered the smell of the barn, the soft clatter of hooves, the creaking of the old windmill as it turned lazily in the hot summer breeze. He could hear the sounds in his mind—laughter, conversation, the hum of life.
And now, nothing. Just the empty fields and the silos that seemed more like tombstones than symbols of productivity. It wasn’t just the land that had disappeared. It was the people. All those who had worked it, tended it, lived on it. Gone, one by one.
He wondered if the land missed them too.
The old man stood for a long time, letting the wind brush over his face. The chill of January had seeped deep into his bones, but there was something oddly peaceful about it. Perhaps it was the quiet, the solitude. There was a comfort in knowing that things could disappear, that time could pass, and yet the world kept on spinning. The fields might be empty now, but they had once been full, and maybe that was enough.
With a final glance at the broken silos, the old man turned back down the road, his boots crunching softly in the gravel. He didn’t need to say goodbye. Some things didn’t need words.
And the wind, as it swept through the trees, seemed to agree.
~Wylddane
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