(story)

In the heart of an ancient forest, where mist weaves through twisted branches and the trees whisper secrets to one another, lived a small bird named Ori. He was a nightingale, but not just any nightingale. He was the last of his kind to remember the old songs.

The old songs were melodies sung before the forest grew silent, before the machines came and the people stopped listening. These songs could stir the wind, call rain from cloudless skies and calm even the wildest beast. Ori had learned them from his grandmother, who sang to him in a hollow oak when he was just a little bird.

Every dawn Ori sang from the highest branch he could find. But no other bird sang back. The forest had grown quiet. The animals listened but with sorrow in their eyes. The trees leaned closer to hear but even their leaves barely rustled in reply.

One morning, Ori noticed something strange. A little girl sat beneath his tree, still and wide-eyed. She had no phone, no earbuds, no camera. She just listened.

Ori sang and something miraculous happened: the forest got alive and stirred.

A fox crept closer, not to hunt but to hear. Squirrels paused mid-leap. Even the wind, shy and hesitant, began to hum along with the tune. The girl stayed until the last note faded like smoke in the air. She smiled, eyes full of tears and whispered “Thank you.”

She returned the next morning. And the next. Each time, she brought someone new — her brother, her father, her teacher. Ori sang for them all. Soon, others came. Not to burn, but to plant. To listen. To protect.

The forest began to heal. Though Ori was still the last of his kind, his songs no longer echoed alone. The people began to hum his tune. The wind remembered how to dance. And one spring morning, from a distant tree, a second nightingale answered.

The old songs were not lost. They had just been waiting for someone to hear.