When mothers and children used to walk along this path and arrive near the well shaft, the air smelled of damp moss and you could hear the rustling of leaves.
Some mothers would whisper: Listen carefully, my darling. Can you hear the little children crying?
The edge was covered with moss, and sometimes a thin mist hung over the water. The children looked into the well shaft, but the depths were dark and quiet. The mother placed a hand on their shoulder: Sometimes all you can hear is the wind blowing through the stones. Sometimes—very rarely—you could hear something that wanted to tell us that we are there for each other.
The child felt the warmth of their mother’s hand, the security in her voice. The screams, if there were any, only echoed in the imagination of the forest – or as reminders to stay together, to be alert, and to seek help when danger approaches.
At the end of the path, the child knew: Sometimes, in the midst of the echoes of the forest, you hear something that reminds us to pay attention – to each other, to what protects us.
Brunnenschacht
