This story was written for the Friday Fictioneers prompt, provided weekly by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields on her blog. Click on the blue InLinkz frog to read other stories for the same prompt and to add your own!
The light made the tall trees look like ghosts ringing that sacred place. He was sitting on the fountain, looking just as he had on that last day.
She sat and his cold hand covered hers. Never, in all these years, had he told her.
“How did you die?” she asked again.
He shook his head.
“Bring your daughter here,” he said. “Tell her the stories.”
“I will,” she said, touching her rounded body, remembering the walks in the woods as a girl and her father’s myths about this place. When she looked up, she was alone.