This is Section Two of a Three-Part Story. It will be published using Substack on Wednesday, October 29th which will be our very last issue of our newsletter there.

Pearl and I have overextended ourselves across too many platforms, so we’re gently scaling down and returning to our roots. From now on, we’ll be sharing through My Life With GraciePress on WordPress (which is where you are right now! So, there’s nothing you need to do except to stay tuned!)

We’re doing our best to recapture the magic we once felt with My Life With Gracie. We may even return to that original name—because that was when things felt so very good for us.

While we can’t go back in time, we can remember and honor those moments. And in doing so, we keep them alive.

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If you subscribed to us on Substack, we thank you for walking with us through Substack. Your presence, your kindness, and your quiet encouragement have meant more than we can say. Pearl and I have felt your companionship in every story, every sketch, every shared memory.

As we return to our roots, we carry your care with us. You have helped keep the magic alive—and for that, we are deeply grateful.

With love,
Pearl and John

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The disappearance of Whisper the Pumpkin sent a ripple through the churchyard. John searched the garden, the compost pile, even the wheelbarrow Ernest sometimes sheltered under. Pearl paced the perimeter, her feathers fluffed in alertness. The children whispered among themselves, wondering if the pumpkin had gone to find its voice.

That evening, as the lanterns were lit and the children gathered in costume, a hush fell over the crowd. The procession was about to begin, but something felt odd.

The air was thick with expectation, like a breath held too long. Even the fallen leaves seemed to be hostile against them.

John stepped forward, holding the lantern he had prepared for the Blessing of the Threshold. “Tonight,” he said, “we listen.”

The children followed him in silence, their footsteps soft against the fallen leaves. Pearl walked beside them, her presence grounding the swirl of emotion. They reached the edge of the woods, where the path curved toward the old chapel ruins—a place rarely visited, except in stories.

And there, in the center of the clearing, sat Whisper.

But it was no longer just a pumpkin. It glowed faintly from within—not with candlelight, but with something older. Around it lay six feathers—one from each hen that had been raised from baby chicks by Nate Elliott. Next to it was a small piece of parchment with Nate’s name written in black ink.

John knelt beside it. “You came here to speak,” he whispered. “We’re ready to listen.”

The wind stirred. The children sat in a circle. Pearl hopped onto a nearby stone to watch and listen better.

Then the whispering began.

It was not frightening. It was not loud. Instead, it was a gentle hum, like the sound of a story being remembered. Each child heard something different. One heard the voice of her grandmother, telling her she was brave. Another heard the sound of his father’s laughter, long missed. A third heard nothing whatsoever, but felt a warmth in his chest that made him cry without knowing why.

John heard Nate’s voice again. “You are becoming,” it said. “Not through duty, but through presence.”

Pearl closed her eyes. She heard nothing, but she felt everything. The pumpkin had become a vessel—not of fear, but of memory. Not of tricks, but of truth.

Then the light inside Whisper dimmed. The children stood. One by one, they placed their hands on the pumpkin and whispered their truths:

“I miss her.”
“I’m scared sometimes.”
“I want to stay.”
“I don’t know how to say goodbye.”
“I love you.”
“I’m still here.”

John placed his hand last. “Thank you,” he said. “For waiting.”

The wind carried the whispers of the children into the trees. John’s lantern flickered. Pearl pecked once at the parchment, then used her beak to tuck it beneath her wing.

They walked back in silence—but it was a sacred silence. The kind that holds space for becoming.

It was a Halloween never to be forgotten.