**The River of Ghosts** 

 

A long time ago, in a land where the forests whispered secrets and the rivers roared with stories, a small boy named Little Feather stood beside his grandfather on a rocky cliff. Below them, the great river rushed forward, its waters shimmering like silver snakes. 

 

Little Feather had always heard tales of the *River of Ghosts*—a place where the spirits of ancestors danced on the waves, whispering wisdom to those who listened. Tonight was special. The elders had gathered, their feathered headdresses swaying in the wind, their eyes fixed on the swirling water. 

 

"Grandfather," Little Feather asked, "do the spirits really live in the river?" 

 

His grandfather, Tall Elk, smiled and pointed. "Watch closely, Little Feather. The river carries memories. When the moonlight touches the waves just right, you will see them." 

 

Little Feather watched in wonder. The water churned, and for a moment, he thought he saw shimmering figures gliding above the rapids—warriors, hunters, and wise elders from long ago. They danced and moved with the river, their voices carried in the wind. 

 

The youngest elder, Running Fox, stepped forward and raised his arms. "Our ancestors guide us still. They remind us to respect the land, the water, and the sky. As long as we listen, we will never be lost." 

 

Little Feather held his breath. He understood now. The *River of Ghosts* wasn’t a place to fear—it was a place of wisdom, where the past and present met. 

 

That night, as they left the riverbank, Little Feather whispered, "Thank you," to the spirits. And in the rustling of the trees and the rush of the water, he thought he heard a whisper back: 

 

*"Remember."