Episode 5: Finna and the First Spark
A story for the season of hush and hearth, where even spilled light becomes sacred.
[Intro music — soft wind, tonal bell, or forest hush]
This is a podcast for children (and grown-ups)who see the world a little slanted—who feel things deeply, ask big questions,and crave stories with truth stitched into the seams.
Each episode is a gentle offering: whispered parables,healing folklore,and sometimes a quiet lesson tucked between the leaves.
Come sit by the roots.The stories are waiting.
[Music swell, then fade]
Welcome to The Hollow Tree.This story is a special offering for a seasonal rhythm honoring.It was whispered by a small resting seed who once witnessed the sharing of a spark.
For children who are curious,for the grownups who guide them,and for the small magic of the unseen and unknown—all are welcome here.
Stay near the roots after the storyand we’ll share some quiet reflections and activities.
We hope you enjoy this midwinter tale—one that marks the hush before spring and the flicker of becoming.
Let’s begin.
🍃 Forest Friend Whisper (not narrator-voiced)
[chime]
“I saw it happen.I was there when the spark slipped through.Some say it was chance.Others say she was chosen.But I remember the moment—the way the light caught in her hair as she stood before the Hollow Tree…and everything changed.”
[chime]
🌿 “Hollow trees don’t mark calendars. But they do remember…Somewhere between frost and the first green tip of spring, a hush falls.It is the hush of new things waking.The hush of tending the small spark.We know this hush. And we’ve gathered you a story—
one that’s only told when the wheel turns quiet and bright.So come close now…This is a special story…And it begins with a girl named Finna…and a very small flame.”
[match striking]
🌲 Finna and the First Spark 🕯️
A story for the season of hush and hearth, where even spilled light becomes sacred.
And now, the tale.
In the hush of deep winter,
when the snow sighs against the roots of the oldest trees,
the Fae elders gathered in the lantern hut,
beneath the old mountain,
to choose a bearer for the First Spark of the season.
They did not choose the tallest child,
nor the fastest,
nor the one who always remembered to tie her laces before stepping into snow.
They chose Finna.
She was small for her age,
often tangled in questions and threads of story.
Her wings were still soft at the edges.
But Finna saw—in ways the others did not.
She listened with her whole being.
She followed the shape of things that hadn’t spoken yet.
And so, she was given the Spark—
carefully kindled from the ember of last year’s last flame,
held in a lantern made of riverglass and ash-twig,
humming warm in her hands.
Her task: carry the Spark to the Candlelings,
the flamekeepers who lived in the roots beneath the Hollow Tree.
No one had seen a Candleling up close in many seasons.
They were shy, soft folk—made of wax and wick,
with eyes like quiet fire.
It was said they kept the deep lights burning under the world,
waiting for the thaw.
Finna began her journey at dawn,
the lantern steady at her side.
But when she neared the Hollow Tree—
a massive, ancient being that curved slightly toward the north star—
she slowed.
Human children had left offerings in the crooks and crevices of its bark:
buttons, feathers, folded wishes, scraps of ribbon.
Finna paused to look.
A small hand-drawn map caught her eye—
crayoned stars marking a path between “home” and “safe.”
She knelt and tucked a note of her own into the hollow:
[soft smooth wise voice]“May your light find you again.”
And in that moment—
when her hand left the lantern and her heart leaned outward—
the Spark slipped.
It tumbled, shivered, split—not once, but many times—into dozens of flickers that scattered like fireflies into the snow.
Finna gasped. Not in fear, but something deeper.Oh no.
Oh yes.
She chased them,
bare fingers brushing bark and ice.
The flickers darted through root tunnels,
under fallen logs,
across frostbitten moss.
They didn’t flee in fear.
They danced.
And just as she thought she had truly lost them,
Finna reached a clearing with a low stone set beneath a ring of cedar trees.
There, waiting in stillness, were the Candlelings.
One stepped forward—
barely a hand high, glowing gently from within.
[small voice]“You’re right on time,” the Candleling said.
Finna blinked. “But—I spilled it. The Spark. I didn’t mean to.”
[small voice]
Another Candleling chuckled. “The Spark wasn’t broken. It became what it was meant to be.”
Finna looked down.
The flickers were gathering now,
circling the stone,
melting into a soft pool of golden light.
Not one.
Not many.
Something new.
[small voice]
“You listened at the Tree,” the first Candleling said.
“You saw someone else’s light and made room.
That’s the only way the Spark ever truly arrives.”
[small voice transition]
They lifted a new flame toward her—woven from the spilled pieces and something more.
“Now,” said the smallest of them,
pressing the flame into a petal-lantern of waxed birch,
“leave a whisper of this light in three places:”
* Where a child waits for spring.
* Where someone has forgotten their own fire.
* Where truth sleeps beneath snow.
Finna took the lantern. Her hands no longer trembled.
And as she turned to go, the Hollow Tree whispered low across the wind and through the roots:
[soft smooth wise voice]
“Even the smallest flame warms the dark—if it’s carried with care.”
Finna held the new flame gently in her hands.
It was small—
quieter than the first Spark—
but steady, golden, and warm.
She thought carefully
and when her chest was warm and her cheeks grew rosy,
she knew what she must do.
She left a glimmer,
first near a garden gate,
where winter vines curled around sleeping soil.
A child would pass there soon,
chasing the sun,
and the flame would wait without needing to be seen.
Next, she tucked a shimmer into the hollow of a stone beneath the cedars—
where someone had once hidden their own light and forgotten how to look for it.
The flame would keep watch until they returned.
Last, she nestled the flame just beneath a drift of snow where a truth had been buried,
too tender for the world.
There it would rest,
glowing beneath the hush,
until the thaw.
When she returned to the Hollow Tree,
empty-handed but full-hearted,
the roots trembled with joy.
[soft smooth wise voice]
“You have done what many could not,” the Tree said.
“You carried what was never yours to keep.
You let it change.
And you let it go.”
Finna smiled—
not because she was proud,
but because she finally understood.
And far beneath the forest, the Candlelings lit the season with what she’d left behind.
To the listeners. To the whisper-hearers. To the ones who hold story before it has shape:
We see you. We thank you. We will keep writing.
Thank you for listening to this special Hollow Tree story.In this season of returning light,may you tend to your own small flame
and notice the flames of others—even if it flickers.Even if it wobbles.
Sometimes the sparks we droplight more than we ever meant.
If you’d like, tuck a note of gratitude beneath a stoneor into the crook of a favorite tree.Or tend to something small in your home—a swept corner, a warm light, a favorite plant.
And if you want to share the story with someone,perhaps you’ll whisper it first—like a secret passed root to root.
And, for those who guide and cherish the young listeners, something special to add.
While you sip your tea or sit with a candle, you might ask…
* “Who gave me warmth when I needed it most?”
* “What dream or hope wants to grow in my lantern, slowly, with care?”
* “Is there one thing I could do today to honor my spark?”
* “If I could carry one small light forward, what would it be for?”
This story will be here, like a candle in the dark,waiting for whenever you wish to return.
You can find more tales and behind-the-scenes magic at thehollowtree.substack.com, Instagram @TheHollowTreeStories and remember to follow along on Spotify and soon YouTube. Until next time—may the path be soft, and the whisper of the forest stay with you.
—Written by Amber Jensen and the voices of The Hollow Tree
If this story stirred something in you…You can keep The Hollow Tree lit by subscribing, sharing it with someone who listens like you do, or leaving a kind note.
Everything here is offered with care.And every listen, every share, every whisper down the line—it matters. 🌲
