Ginger first heard the pines whispering on an afternoon when there wasn’t enough wind to move anything else.

She had gone with her family into the mountains, where the air was cooler and the trees grew tall and close together. Ginger liked the mountains, but they felt different from the open country she knew best. At home, she could see a long way. Here, the forest seemed to fold around her, one tree behind another, until she couldn’t tell what might be hiding beyond them.

She wandered only a little way from where the grown-ups were sitting, following a narrow path covered with brown pine needles. They were soft beneath her shoes, and every few steps she stopped to pick up something interesting, a pinecone with perfectly even scales, a smooth gray stone, a piece of bark shaped like a crooked nose. Before long, both of her pockets were full.

That was when she heard it.

Shhhhhhhhhh.

Ginger stopped. The sound came from somewhere high above her. She tipped her head back and looked into the branches. The tops of the pine trees were moving gently, but the smaller bushes near the ground were perfectly still.

Shhhhhhhhhh.

It didn't sound exactly like wind. It sounded like someone whispering from very far away. Ginger looked behind her. “Hello?” Nothing answered.

She walked a little farther along the path.

Shhhhhhhhhh.

This time there seemed to be something inside the sound, something almost like words. Ginger stood very still and listened as hard as she could.

Come this way.

Her eyes widened. She knew perfectly well that trees did not talk. She also knew that sometimes people said they heard things when the wind moved through branches. But there was hardly any wind, and Ginger was quite certain she had heard three words.

“Come which way?” she whispered. The pines rustled again, and Ginger followed the path.

It curved around a fallen tree and climbed a small hill. On the other side, the forest became darker and cooler. Sunlight slipped between the branches in long golden streaks, and tiny bits of dust floated through them. Ginger could no longer hear the grown-ups talking behind her. That made her stop. She knew she wasn't supposed to go too far.

“I should go back,” she said. The forest was silent.

Ginger turned around.

Shhhhhhhhhh.

She turned back. The whisper came again, softer this time.

Just a little farther.

Ginger frowned. “You’re going to get me in trouble.” The pines did not seem particularly concerned about that.

She took ten more steps. Exactly ten. Ginger counted them because ten steps did not seem like enough to qualify as disobeying. At the tenth step, she found another path, one she hadn't noticed before. It was barely a path at all, just a thin opening between the trees.

Something white lay on the ground. Ginger crouched and picked it up. It was a tiny piece of cloth tied around the branch of a young pine tree. Farther ahead was another one. And beyond that, another. Now Ginger forgot about counting steps.

She followed the pieces of cloth until the trees suddenly opened into a small clearing. In the middle stood the remains of an old wooden cabin. Most of the roof was gone. One wall leaned sideways, and grass grew where the floor must once have been. An old wooden chair with only three legs sat near the doorway.

Ginger stared. Someone had lived here a long time ago.

She stepped carefully through the doorway. In one corner she found a broken blue cup half buried in the dirt. Near the wall lay a horseshoe, brown with rust. Ginger brushed away pine needles and discovered something carved into one of the remaining boards.

Two letters.

E + M

Underneath them was a date.

1919

Ginger traced the numbers with one finger. More than anything, she wanted to know who E and M had been. Had children lived here? Had they climbed these same trees? Had they heard the pines whispering too?

Then the forest changed. The light had begun to fade, and Ginger suddenly remembered exactly how far she had wandered. “Oh.”

She hurried out of the cabin and looked for the pieces of white cloth. They were gone. Ginger's stomach tightened. She ran to the first little pine tree, but nothing was tied to it. She looked at the next tree and the next. Nothing.

“I don't like this anymore,” she said. For the first time all afternoon, the pines were completely silent.

Ginger stood in the clearing, trying very hard not to cry. Every direction looked the same. Tall trunks. Brown needles. Shadows. Then, somewhere behind her, came a soft rustling.

Shhhhhhhhhh.

Ginger turned.

This way.

She followed the sound. Whenever she reached a place where the path divided, the pines whispered again. Left at the fallen tree. Right around the rocks. Down the little hill.

Then Ginger heard voices.

“Ginger!”

She ran. She burst through the trees and found her family calling for her. Ginger received a great many hugs, followed by several stern words about wandering away, followed by more hugs.

Later, when everyone was packing up to leave, Ginger told them about the cabin.

“What cabin?” someone asked.

“The old one. Up the path.”

“There aren't any cabins up there.”

“Yes, there are. I saw it.”

Ginger reached into her pocket, hoping she had brought something back without remembering it. She pulled out the pinecone, the gray stone, the crooked piece of bark and, finally, something she didn't remember picking up at all.

A tiny piece of faded white cloth.

Ginger stared at it. Above her, the evening breeze finally began to blow. The tall pines swayed together.

Shhhhhhhhhh.

Ginger looked up. For just a moment, beneath the sound of the wind, she thought she heard two words.

Come again.

Ginger slipped the little piece of cloth into her pocket. She wasn't sure she would.

But she wasn't sure she wouldn't, either.