Pick a Word, Paint a Story #21

Hello Steemit friends 👋🏾

Each week, the “Pick a Word, Paint a Story” contest asks us to get inside one word and make it come alive with our stories. This week, see what comes to mind for each of the words Grin, Glow and Breeze. I specifically liked the word “Breeze” because it is both soft but potentially powerful in a sort of soft whisper.

What started as a whisper of a notion developed into a story of the heart about memory, healing and the invisible ties that bind us to the people we have loved and lost. I hope this work makes you feel something, much like the breeze did for Elira.

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Word Chosen: BREEZE
Title: The Breeze That Knew Her Name

The village of N’kara nestled between rolling hills and endless fields, where time ambled and silence was golden. In this town of silence, the breeze was not mere wind; it was a living soul, familiar to the old men and terrifying to the children. They named it Mphepo ya Moyo — the Breeze of Life.

Folklore, to outsiders. To Elira, the twelve-year-old, it was a memory hard to erase.

Exactly two years ago, on a stormy night, Elira lost her mother. The thunder rumbled like a wounded animal and the rain fell like Elira had never seen it before. But it wasn’t the storm itself that she recalled most vividly — it was the sudden silence that followed. A cool, ghostlike breeze filled the house and caressed her cheek, and for a moment it brought with it the faint odor of her mother’s lavender soap.

Since then, the breeze had come on odd days, whenever she was feeling lost or scared. It never howled or rushed. It just came, kissed her on the forehead and as discreetly as it had arrived, it went.

The villagers whispered that Elira was “touched,” a child the spirits watched over. Her father, a schoolteacher and skeptic, dismissed it as “emotional projection.” But Elira knew better.

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One golden evening, she sat alone by the baobab tree behind her house, tracing circles in the dust. Her chest felt heavy. Her classmates had laughed at her once more — called her “Wind Girl” and jeered at her stories. One tear ran down her cheek.

Then the wind, so gentle, so warm, so full of memories. It spooled itself around her like a shawl, ruffling her hair and drying her tears. She smiled.

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“Are you there, Mama?” she whispered.

The breeze paused—just for a moment—and the baobab leaves danced. She closed her eyes. It was as if the wind had answered.

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As she aged, the visits were few and far between, yet each visit left her stronger. The breeze was no longer a just a whisper fainting through the trees — it was a warning.
A reminder that love did not die, it turned into something else. Other times, it was a tale, a fragrance or a trace of breeze that enwheeled your name.

Years later, Elira would become a writer, penning stories inspired by the wind, tales of strength in softness, and power in the unseen. And when she received her first literary award, standing under the bright lights, she felt it again just a gentle tug at her sleeve, a faint, floral scent.

The breeze had come to celebrate.

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Conclusion

Stories like The Breeze That Knew Her Name are a reminder that not all connections are visible. Whether it's love, grief, or hope, sometimes the softest things in life carry the greatest weight. Thank you for letting let the breeze tell your heart my tale. Sharing words that breathe life into stories! 📚✨

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Thank you for reading my entry for "Pick a Word, Paint a Story #21" hosted by @senehasa.
📝 Word used: BREEZE
🔗 Original Contest Post: [Contest Announcement! “PICK A WORD, PAINT A STORY #22" And Winners of Week 21 Contest.]

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to comment, resteem, or share your thoughts about the word that inspired you the most.

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I'm excited to invite you,
@pandora2010
@suryati1
@isha-rehman

HAVE FUN AND STEEM ON!