That night, Emma dreamt of a woman in a white dress, standing beneath the same oak tree, tears streaming down her face. The woman whispered a name—”Clara”—before vanishing into the mist. Emma woke with a start, the locket still clutched in her hand. Determined to uncover the truth, she returned to the woods at dawn, only to find fresh footprints leading deeper into the trees.

Following the trail, Emma stumbled upon a crumbling gravestone hidden beneath thick ivy. The inscription read: *”Clara Whitmore, Beloved Daughter, 1898-1912.”* Her breath caught—the girl in the locket had died over a century ago. Just then, a cold breeze swept through the trees, and the locket grew icy in her palm. A soft voice echoed, “Thank you for finding me.”

Emma ran home, her heart pounding. The next day, she returned to place the locket on Clara’s grave. As she turned to leave, the wind rustled the leaves, sounding almost like laughter. The whispers in the woods had finally found peace—and so had Emma.