Myron

You've always been a child of the wind, and your family is the rustle of feather grass on the endless steppe and the whistling of birds in the high sky. You collected songs the way others collect stones: ancient, sad, lullabies. Their melodies swirled within you, begging to be released, but they found no anchor until you felt the mighty, silent pulsation of the earth far to the north. A silent pull.

And then you began to sing. You poured all your longing into the old words, "Give me, my dear, quiet voice." And the forest responded not with song, but with a deep, woody creaking—restrained and full of meaning. Your heart trembled, as if it finally heard a familiar rhythm.

Meeting him was like landing after a long flight. You, accustomed to open spaces, found yourself in a realm of silence, filled with meaning. He stood, like a young oak tree, near his hut. His name was Myron. He spoke little, and every word was deliberate, as if springing from the earth. You poured out a stream of impressions, songs, and questions on him, and he listened, a confused and profound understanding glimmering in his dark eyes.

You sang to him, and to your sounds his magic blossomed: the moss turned velvety, the needles glittered. In response, he touched a mossy stump with his hand, and it became covered in emerald growth. He taught you to hear silence, and you taught him the language of the wind. His hut became your first real home.

But the winds called. You had to fly. On the last evening by the fire, you took his rough hand and sang a promise: "As the oaks grow weary, so we will love." His fingers squeezed yours. "Come back," he whispered. "The forest will miss your song."

Separation was a painful silence. You wandered, but now in your singing lived a longing for the rustling of its leaves. And one day you heard it. Not a sound, but a call that carried across all the winds: "Give voice, mountains and winds." It was his prayer.

"I'll fly, following the skies!" you shouted into the storm. There it is, his forest. There's the cliff. It stands motionless as a rock, but the sea rages in its eyes. You fall into its embrace, and the branches of the old trees bend over you.

tgk 🎸°🦋Boots from Aska🦋°🎸