The Whispering Canvas

 

Elin resided in a crooked, creaking cottage on the outskirts of the village of Elderglow, where the gales whistled lullabies and flowers changed color to reflect the mood. She was not talked about for her, but for her paintings. Her paintings glimmered softly, as if they were half-whispering something beyond range to the human ear.

Children would occasionally push their ears against her completed paintings and report that they heard laughter, music, and even secrets from the stars.

But Elin heard absolutely nothing. Never from her paintings, never from the world.

She painted daily, not for acclaim, but simply because it was the one way she was seen. Her fingers seemed to dance by habit, painting where she'd never traveled, faces she'd never met, and skies that were not her own.

As the night poured over her studio, infusing it with pale silver from the moon, Elin was seized by an inexplicable tug in her chest — as if memory was struggling to be born. She picked up her brush unreflectingly, dipping it into moonlit blue and stardust white, and brushed on a door.

It was unlike any she'd ever painted. Towering, arched, curling vines that radiated light. And when the last brushstroke dried, the door on the canvas shimmered. And then creaked open.

Soft light poured out, and out of it came this small being, no larger than her elbow, composed fully of flickering gold and pink light. It blinked up at her, having eyes that were like beams of sunlight.

"Lost" it sighed. "I can't get home."

She gazed; brush halted in motion. "Who... are you?"

I am Joy, it said, its voice ringing out like chimes in the breeze. A spirit forged out of lost happiness. I have been stuck in limbo, waiting for someone to brush the path. Something moved inside Elin's chest - not pain, not unhappiness, but something warmer. Tentative. She extended her hand.

"Then, let's get you there."

They walked into the canvas.

Within was Elin's own artwork brought to life: meadows bathed in sunlight, flying boats, rainbow rain. They strolled through meadows she had once painted out of grief, now filled with music and laughter. As they walked, the Spirit of Joy shone brighter.

Every location they walked by brought to life something Elin hadn't even known she'd painted - the lilt of her mother's lullaby, her first friend's smile, the feel of holding her grandfather's hand. All the emotions she'd concealed came bursting out into spring after seasons of winter.

At last, they arrived in an open space that had a tree composed of whirling light. She turned to her.

"This is where I call home. You don't have to go, though."

Elin smiled, the first genuine one in all these years. "I think so. But I'll carry this magic along."

Returning to her studio, she had tears on her cheeks and light in her heart.

After that day, her paintings did not simply whisper, they sang.

Individuals traveled from distant villages, not to simply view her paintings, but to be with her, to tell their tales, to feel. No longer alone, Elin was surrounded by warmth, by laughter, by color.

And every so often, under a silver moon, she’d paint a door – just in case another Joy was waiting to return.