Summer ghost Leni Korhonen Summer ghost “How long, Mama, must we endure these endless pauses?” Leni Korhonen An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book Summer ghost Summer ghost Leni Korhonen Leni Korhonen An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Summer ghost T he morning sun rose over the tranquil coun- tryside, casting golden beams on the dew-dap- pled fields that stretched out before the open windows of the Westbrook family estate. It was to be a perfect summer day, a day filled with laughter, walks in the meadow, and idle conversation in the garden. But beneath the seemingly perfect surface, an unspoken tension simmered among the family. The gentle hum of the bees and the songs of the birds offered a stark contrast to the silent war brewing in their hearts. “How long, Mama, must we endure these endless pauses?” asked Eleanor Westbrook, her voice trem- bling as she adjusted the lace curtains in the drawing room. Her youthful optimism had been clouded by something unseen, but deeply felt. “It is not like Fa- ther to delay our journey for so long. What if it is already too late?” Leni Korhonen Her mother, Margaret Westbrook, sitting by the fire with her needlework in hand, sighed deeply, casting a weary glance at her daughter. Her face, once radiant with the carefree elegance of a woman in her prime, now bore the lines of a grief long simmering, though never fully acknowledged. “Patience, my dear Elea- nor. Your father will come to a decision when he is ready.” Eleanor’s words were followed by a long silence, as her mother’s attention seemed to drift between the delicate stitch she had not completed and the faraway look in her eyes. It was a look Eleanor had come to know all too well in recent days—a look that spoke of something buried deep within her mother’s heart, something she refused to acknowledge, but which Eleanor had come to fear. At that moment, the door creaked open, and in walked Richard Westbrook, their eldest son. His broad shoulders and tall figure seemed to fill the room with an air of quiet confidence, yet the very sound of his footsteps was enough to betray the un- ease that hung about him like a heavy cloak. There was something about his manner that day, something more than the usual tension of the family’s affairs that made the atmosphere in the room even more stifling. Summer ghost “Father, have you heard from Charles?” Eleanor asked, her voice tinged with worry. “Is he still plan- ning to join us at the lake?” Richard’s brow furrowed, and for a brief moment, he hesitated, an uncharacteristic delay that did not escape either his mother or sister. His mouth opened to speak, but it seemed that the words had momen- tarily fled him, leaving him searching for the right way to address what had been left unsaid for far too long. Eleanor watched him with increasing alarm. “It seems, Eleanor,” Richard began slowly, his voice heavy, “that our plans may be altered.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Charles has... met with an accident.” The words hung in the air like a thunderclap, re- verberating through the room with an intensity that made Eleanor’s heart falter. She looked at her father, unable to process what he had just said. “An acci- dent?” she repeated, her voice a soft echo, as though she could not believe it to be true. Margaret’s hand faltered, the needle slipping from her grasp as she turned pale, her eyes wide with dis- belief. Her lips parted as if to say something, but no sound came out. For a moment, the room was still, Leni Korhonen save for the muffled ticking of the old clock on the mantel. “An accident? My son... my dear Charles!” Her voice cracked, and her hand went to her chest, as though she could somehow hold herself together through sheer will. “No, Richard, it cannot be. There must be some mistake.” Richard stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the floor, his face drawn in a way that his mother and sister had not seen before. “It is true, Mother. I regret to say that the accident was severe. He is... not ex- pected to recover.” Eleanor felt as though the ground had been ripped from beneath her. The words seemed foreign, utter- ly detached from any reality she could understand. “No... No, it cannot be. Charles... he is so full of life. He cannot be taken from us so suddenly.” Margaret rose to her feet, her hands trembling as she gripped the arm of the chair. “I will not believe it. There must be some mistake. He cannot be gone.” Her voice wavered, and for the briefest of moments, she seemed to regain some semblance of control over her emotions. But it was short-lived. She stepped to- ward Richard, clutching his arm as though to steady herself. “Tell me, Richard. Tell me it is not true. Tell me there is still hope.” Summer ghost Richard’s gaze remained unyielding, and his voice dropped, heavy with the burden of truth. “I wish it were a mistake, Mother. But we must face the truth, as hard as it may be. Charles is gone, and nothing will ever be the same.” The words hit Eleanor like a storm, sweeping over her with such force that she found herself gasping for breath. Her knees grew weak, and she sank into a chair, her hands trembling as she tried to hold onto something, anything stable in the midst of the cha- os. Her mind could not, would not, accept what had been spoken. Margaret, too, had begun to sway, her eyes glossy with unshed tears. “My son... my Charles...” Her voice broke, and she collapsed into Richard’s arms, no longer able to hold herself together. “I cannot bear this. How could he be taken from us so swiftly? Just a moment ago, he was full of life. Full of laughter. And now—” Richard’s expression softened, and he knelt beside his mother, placing a hand gently on her trembling shoulder. “I wish there were some other way, Mother. But this is the truth. We must face it, no matter how painful.” Leni Korhonen The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the distant chirping of birds, now somehow more mournful than before. The clock ticked on, marking the passage of time as the reality of the loss began to settle like a thick fog upon the family. What was meant to be a summer of joy and carefree delight had been torn asunder, and the Westbrook family would never again experience the lightness of those halcyon days. Eleanor lifted her tear-streaked face, her eyes red from the weight of unshed tears. “What are we to do now, Father?” Her voice was small, barely above a whisper, as though she feared that speaking too loud- ly would shatter what was left of their fragile peace. Richard stood up, his face grim but resolute. “We do what we must. We move forward, for Charles would have wanted it. But I fear the world will never be the same again.” And so, in that moment, the Westbrook family was left to grapple with an uncertain future, their once-solid foundation crumbling beneath the weight of grief and the echoes of a life that could never be reclaimed. Summer ghost I. The days following Charles’s tragic accident seemed to stretch into an eternity of quiet despair. The Westbrook estate, once alive with the sounds of children’s laughter and the bustling of servants, now stood silent and somber. The servants moved in hushed tones, avoiding eye contact as they passed from room to room. The very air seemed heavier, as if the house itself had absorbed the sorrow that had descended upon it. Margaret, once the pillar of grace and strength, had become a shadow of herself, her countenance pale, her movements slow, as though each step she took was a struggle against an invisible weight. Eleanor, too, had retreated into herself. Her once bright and lively nature was replaced by a quiet mourning, her days spent gazing out of the window at the lush fields that seemed to mock her grief. They had played there as children, with Charles at the head of their little band of mischief-makers. Now, the fields appeared barren to her, stripped of all the joy they had once held. Leni Korhonen Richard, their father, who had always been the steadfast center of the family, now found himself faltering. His usual composure was slipping, and though he bore the weight of responsibility with as much grace as he could summon, there was no de- nying the strain that the tragedy had placed on him. He had always been the protector, the one who had guided his family through countless challenges, but now, as he looked at his wife and daughter, he felt the enormity of the task before him. He was hold- ing them together with fragile threads, threads that seemed to grow weaker by the day. It was in the late afternoon, as the shadows length- ened across the quiet estate, that Richard found his way to Eleanor’s room. The door creaked softly as he entered, and for a moment, he stood in the door- way, watching his daughter, who sat at the window, her gaze distant. Her face, though still youthful, was marred by the sorrow that had taken hold of her heart. She looked like a ghost, pale and listless, with no semblance of the lively young woman she had been before the accident. “Eleanor,” Richard said gently, his voice betraying a weariness that he could not hide. “May I speak with you?” Summer ghost Eleanor did not look up immediately, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the patterns in the fabric of the curtain. The sound of her father’s voice seemed distant to her, as though it came from a world she could no longer reach. She had heard those words a thousand times before, but now they carried no meaning. She had no interest in anything, no interest in the world, no interest in life. At last, she turned to him, her eyes red from the days of silent crying. “What is there to say, Father?” she asked, her voice hollow. “Charles is gone. We are all lost, and nothing can bring him back.” Richard’s heart tightened at the sight of her. She was his daughter, his bright and thoughtful Eleanor, and to see her in such anguish tore at him. He sat beside her, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. “I know this is a pain that words cannot assuage,” he said quietly. “But we must go on. We must live, not just for ourselves, but for your mother, for the mem- ory of Charles. He would not wish for us to be swal- lowed by grief.” Eleanor turned away from him, her gaze once more fixed on the window, though her mind was far from the scenery outside. “How can you say such things, Father? How can you speak of moving for- Leni Korhonen ward as though it is a simple thing? You have not lost a brother. You cannot possibly understand the depth of this loss.” Richard’s expression softened. “I understand more than you think, Eleanor. I may not have lost a broth- er, but I have lost a son. And your mother... she has lost her child, her heart. This pain is something we all must bear, in our own way. But it is not something that should consume us. We owe it to Charles to con- tinue with our lives, to honor him in the only way we can—by living well, by caring for one another.” Eleanor’s eyes flashed with a mixture of sorrow and frustration. “You speak of living, Father, but I cannot find it in me to live. The world has lost all its color. How am I to move forward when the very thought of it fills me with such sorrow?” Richard’s voice grew firmer, though his heart was heavy with the same grief. “It will take time, Eleanor. And I do not expect you to forget the pain so quickly. But we cannot stay in this shadow forever. We must lean on each other, as a family. That is all we have now—each other.” Eleanor closed her eyes, pressing her palm to her forehead as though she could ward off the suffocat- Summer ghost ing grief that clung to her. “I do not know if I can do it, Father. I do not know if I can move on. Not with- out Charles.” Richard, unable to find the right words to ease her pain, reached out and gently took her hand in his. His touch was warm, a steady reminder that she was not alone. “I know this is difficult, my dear. But you are not without support. You have your mother, and you have me. We will face this together.” For a long moment, Eleanor remained silent, her heart torn between the pain of loss and the desire to honor her father’s wishes. The tears that had long since dried up seemed to come rushing back, but this time, she allowed herself to shed them, to mourn openly before the one person who still remained standing when the world seemed to have fallen apart. “I am sorry, Father,” she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. “I wish I could be strong. But I do not know how.” Richard gave her a small, sad smile. “You need not apologize, my dear. We are all learning how to live with this loss. And though it may seem impossible now, in time, we will find our way forward. We will find a new purpose, together.” Leni Korhonen Eleanor nodded slowly, though she still could not see the path ahead. The road seemed impossibly long, and the pain that gripped her heart seemed insur- mountable. But in her father’s words, in his unwaver- ing strength, she found a flicker of hope. Perhaps, in time, she would find her way back to the light. Just then, the door creaked again, and Margaret, her face pale and drawn, entered the room. She had been listening from the hallway, though she had not interrupted their conversation. Her eyes, swollen from days of weeping, met Eleanor’s, and for a brief moment, there was a silent understanding between them, a shared grief, a bond that no words could ad- equately express. “I heard your voices,” Margaret said softly, her voice thin but determined. “And though my heart is broken, I know that we must all try to be strong. For Charles, for each other.” Eleanor rose from her chair and crossed to her mother, wrapping her arms around her in a quiet embrace. “I will try, Mama. I will try.” The three of them stood together, a family bound by loss, yet somehow still standing, still reaching for one another in the midst of the storm. Though the Summer ghost days ahead would be filled with sorrow and uncer- tainty, there was, for the first time in many days, a glimmer of hope, a hope that, perhaps, together, they might begin to heal. Leni Korhonen II. As the days of summer stretched into the golden haze of late afternoon, the Westbrook estate, once a picture of life and vitality, seemed to shrink under the oppressive weight of grief. The house itself appeared to reflect the family’s sorrow, its high windows were often shut tight, and the once vibrant gardens stood untended, as though they, too, had given up in the wake of the family’s tragedy. It was on one such evening, when the shadows be- gan to lengthen and the sun dipped low beyond the horizon, that Margaret Westbrook sat alone by the hearth. The fire flickered weakly, casting long, wa- vering shadows upon the walls of the drawing-room. Margaret’s face was drawn and pale, her eyes fixed on the flames as if seeking some warmth from their glow, though her thoughts were far from the pres- Summer ghost ent moment. The quiet crackling of the fire seemed a cruel reminder of the silence that had fallen over the house since Charles’s untimely death. Richard entered the room, his footsteps soft on the polished floorboards, as though he feared disturbing his mother’s solitude. He had spent the day in the study, overseeing correspondence and estate mat- ters, yet his thoughts had often strayed to his young- er brother—the brother whose sudden absence still echoed painfully in every corner of the house. He had, perhaps, been a pillar of strength for his wife and daughter, but the loss of Charles had shattered something deep within him, and he often found himself lost in memories of their shared youth. “Mother,” Richard said softly, his voice low but filled with an aching tenderness. “You have not spo- ken of Charles in some time. I have noticed. Is it not time to remember him, to honor him in some way?” Margaret’s gaze never left the fire as she turned her head slightly to acknowledge him. A tremor passed over her lips, and her hand clutched the edge of her shawl as though she might draw some comfort from its familiarity. “How can I?” she replied, her voice thick with emotion. “Every memory of him now is tainted by grief. Every smile, every laugh, now they Leni Korhonen seem cruel in their sweetness. His presence lingers in this house like a ghost, and yet, he is gone. How do I move on from such devastation?” Richard took a step closer, lowering himself to the seat beside her. He gently reached for her hand, his own strong but trembling, as if trying to offer her the solace he himself had not yet found. “We move for- ward, Mother. Not to forget him, but to carry him with us. We honor him by continuing to live. He would not want us to be consumed by sorrow, to lose ourselves in the depth of this grief. He would want us to find joy again. I know that much of him remains within us.” Margaret’s tears welled, and she raised her hand to her face, wiping away the moisture that had pooled there. She looked down at her fingers, tracing the delicate embroidery on the handkerchief she had kept since Charles’s childhood. It was a small, sim- ple thing, but to her, it represented everything he had been: kind, gentle, and full of life. The pain of los- ing him now seemed to pierce deeper than she could bear. “Perhaps you are right, Richard,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But the road ahead seems so uncertain. How do I live without him by my side? Without his laughter echoing in the halls? Without his gentle presence beside me?”