Whispers in the Wind

Aurelia's Perspective:

The trees talk to me. Not with words like grown-ups use, but in whispers—soft and swishy, like when the wind plays with my hair. I think they tell stories, but they're secrets, and secrets aren't supposed to be said too loud. So, I just listen.

I like the way the moss feels under my fingers—squishy, like a sponge, but alive. The rocks by the brook are smooth, cold, and round, like the candies I'm not supposed to eat before dinner. The water laughs as it dances over them, and I like to laugh back, but only when no one's watching. People don't always understand my laugh. They think it's silly, but it's not.

There's this tree I like, the one with the twisty trunk. Its bark feels scratchy against my hands, and I like to hug it because it smells good—like leaves and sunshine. I think it's the oldest tree here, even older than Grandpa. It doesn't talk much, but when I close my eyes and lean my cheek against it, I can feel it hum. It's like it's telling me, "I'm here. You're here. And that's enough."

The flowers are my favorite. I never pick them. It feels mean, like stealing a bird's feather while it's still flying. Instead, I sit close and talk to them. "You're so pretty," I told a purple one yesterday. "Your petals look like tiny skirts. Do you like to dance?" It didn't answer, but it swayed in the breeze, and I think that means yes.

Sometimes, I find hurt things. A moth with a crumpled wing or a beetle flipped on its back. They make my chest feel tight, like I swallowed a rock. I try to help them, but my hands are so little. Once, I put a sprig of mint next to a hurt moth. I don't know why—it just felt like the right thing to do. The moth wasn't there when I came back, and I hope that means it got better.

The other kids are nice, I guess, but they don't understand. They run and yell and don't stop to notice the soft things, the quiet things. I don't mind. The trees and flowers and moss don't mind either.

I don't know what I'll be when I grow up. Maybe someone who fixes broken wings or helps flowers grow taller. But right now, I like just being here, with the whispers and the humming and the dancing water. I think the world is alive, and it feels good to listen.

---

The first time I saw him, he wasn't standing still. He was running—no, chasing—like a leaf caught in its own storm. His golden hair shone so bright in the sunlight that I squinted, and his eyes—deep and golden, like the heart of a sunflower—never left the air in front of him. He wasn't chasing nothing; he was chasing the wind.

"Stop!" he yelled, laughing, his voice as wild as he looked. "You're too fast today! Slow down!" He jumped over a log and landed hard, skidding in the dirt. His knee scraped the ground, and I winced for him, but he didn't seem to care. He brushed off the dirt and laughed again, looking up at the swaying trees like he expected them to answer.

I was crouched behind the big tree, the one with the twisty trunk, and I froze, hoping he wouldn't see me. But his golden eyes flicked toward me anyway, sharp and curious. He tilted his head, his smile crooked like he'd found something surprising.

"What are you doing there, little fox?" he asked, but his voice wasn't like other boys. It wasn't teasing. It sounded... delighted.

I didn't answer. I just stared at him, and he stared back, like we were both trying to figure out if the other was real.

"You're strange," he said finally, grinning. "I like strange." Then, as if he couldn't sit still any longer, he jumped up and spun in place, his arms wide like he wanted to hug the sky. "Did you see her? The wind? She's being difficult today."

I frowned, standing slowly. "Who's she?"

He pointed at nothing—the air, the way the leaves danced. "The wind, of course! She's temperamental, but I love her. Always running away when I want her close." He paused and looked at me again, his grin turning mischievous. "Kind of like you, little fox."

"I'm not a fox," I said quietly, but I didn't move back when he stepped closer.

"Oh, but you are," he said, crouching now so his face was almost level with mine. His golden eyes glowed like embers, studying me in a way that made my cheeks feel warm. "Quiet, clever, watching everything. I like foxes."

I crossed my arms, trying to figure out if he was mocking me. "Why do you talk to the wind?"

"Because she listens," he said simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He reached out then, not to me, but to a low-hanging branch beside me. His fingers brushed it gently, and I noticed a small cut on his knuckle, probably from his tumble.

"You're hurt," I said before I could stop myself.

"Hm? Oh, this?" He looked at his hand like he'd forgotten about it, then shrugged. "The wind doesn't mind a little blood. Do you?"

I shook my head, but my feet carried me closer. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small leaf I'd found earlier, soft and perfect. Without saying a word, I pressed it against the scrape.

He blinked at me, surprised, then chuckled softly. "A healer, are we?"

"I just don't like seeing things hurt," I murmured.

He stood then, taller than I'd realized, and looked down at me with an expression I didn't understand—half wonder, half something else, something softer.

"Well, little fox," he said, stepping back and twirling again, his arms wide like he was ready to catch the wind. "It seems you've got your own magic."

He ran off after that, chasing the air again, calling to it like it was a person. I stood there, holding the quiet, my fingers still tingling where I'd touched his hand.

From his spot deeper in the trees, Solace glanced back once. The little girl with the sea-blue eyes was strange, he thought. Strange and lovely, like the kind of secret the wind might tell if it ever stopped running.