The tune of nature - by Rahima Suleiman

The Tune of Nature In a quiet village nestled between emerald hills and silver streams, there lived a boy named Arin. He was no older than twelve, with hair as wild as the wind and a heart as open as the sky. Though he had few possessions, he held tightly to one treasure: a wooden flute, worn and smooth from years of use. This flute had been carved by his grandfather, a man who claimed that every piece of nature carried its own tune. "Listen closely, Arin," he used to say, tapping his ear. "The wind has a whisper, the trees hum low, and the rivers sing their secrets. Play with them, not over them." After his grandfather passed, Arin would go into the forest each morning, following the sun’s fingers as they pierced through the canopy. There, surrounded by birdsong and rustling leaves, he would play his flute—not to perform, but to speak. He played not melodies of men, but the sounds of the forest: soft chirps, long sighs, and ripples of notes that danced like dragonflies. One dawn, a strange hush fell over the forest. The birds did not chirp. The breeze stood still. Even the brook seemed to hold its breath. Arin felt a chill—not from cold, but from absence. He lifted his flute and played, uncertainly at first, then with urgency. His song called for life, for sound, for the forest to wake. From behind the trees stepped a creature unlike any he had seen. Tall and graceful, with bark-like skin and glowing eyes, it moved like flowing water. "You play the tune of nature," it said, its voice like rustling leaves. "Few remember the old ways." Arin bowed, unsure whether to speak. The creature stepped forward and placed a vine-wrapped hand on his shoulder. "The forest is fading," it said. "Its song grows faint. But your music... it breathes life. Would you help restore its voice?" With a nod, Arin agreed. Each day after, he ventured deeper into the woods, where the trees were older and the shadows longer. He learned to mimic the calls of the owl, the rhythm of the falling rain, and the harmonies of distant thunder. Where he played, flowers bloomed brighter, streams ran clearer, and the silence lifted. The villagers began to notice. Crops grew more vibrant, the air smelled of honey and pine, and animals returned to places long forgotten. Though they never saw the creature Arin had met, they spoke of the “green guardian” whose music healed the land. Years passed. Arin grew into a young man, still with the same flute and the same wonder in his eyes. People came from far-off lands to hear him play. But he never played for fame. His music remained what it always was—a conversation with the earth. And every time he lifted his flute, the forest listened. The tune of nature had found its voice again. And its song would never be silenced.

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