The family hung bells everywhere: upon the gate, above the door, along the curving bannister, from gutters and from windowsills, and on the branches of weary trees. When the wind came, they would chime away and all the air would be full of ringing.
“It’s silly,” the daughter said. Arms crossed, she leant against the wall, watching her father tie a bell around the mirror of her new car. It rang as his calloused hands bound the string. “Just an old superstition.”
The father shrugged. “Better safe than sorry.”
She rolled her eyes and made sure to slam the door hard as she could on the way in. The bells above the doorway clattered excitedly.
Her father sighed. He had heard the whispers of the wild wind. The scar on his wrist showed pale against the brown of his skin where his wife had bound him so that he could not follow the voices of the faeries.
The bells drowned them out, ringing above the wind. And yet still, sometimes, he could feel them close.
“Come home,” they whispered. “Come home to us, you wayward prince.”
They would never stop whispering. Not for him. And not for her.
Word Count: 198
This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Thanks to Susan to running the challenge and C.E. Ayr for providing the prompt photo!