Morning arrived on a breeze that smelled like wildflowers and fresh bread.
I didn't dream again. I just woke up feeling very rested. The kind of rest that doesn't come with deadlines or alarms or that feeling in your chest like you're already behind on tomorrow. I'd slept nestled in my moss bed, chest puffed up, feathers fluffed, perfectly still except for the occasional twitchy dream-wing.
It was the first time in a long time I'd woken up without dread.
Stretching my wings that are still wobbly, but improving, I took to the air. A short hop from one tree to the next. I was getting the hang of it now. One gliding swoop, a mid-air correction, and bam! on the branch.
No applause, but the leaves definitely rustled like they were impressed.
I chirped instinctively.
...Okay. Maybe I was getting a little too into this.
It wasn't long before I smelled something I shouldn't be smelling in a forest.
Butter?
Specifically, butter melting on something delicious.
I followed the scent through the trees, dipping under low branches and weaving between trunks, until I came to a small clearing. And there, nestled between two flowering olive trees, was a cottage.
It looked like something out of a storybook: stone walls with curling ivy, a crooked chimney puffing soft smoke, and a small garden blooming with herbs, vegetables, and suspiciously vibrant mushrooms.
A black cat lounged on the windowsill. It glanced at me, yawned, and returned to napping.
And then I saw her.
She was hanging laundry on a line strung between two gnarled posts, humming softly to herself. Her silver hair was tied up in a messy bun, a huge 6 ft piece of wood next to her, and her robes were too long for her frame, dragging slightly in the dirt. She moved slowly but with ease, like she'd been doing this for a hundred years and could keep doing it for a hundred more.
There was no question about it.
A witch.
I landed in a bush and watched.
Not because I was scared. Mostly because I had no idea how to approach someone who might curse me into a squirrel if I startled her.
But before I could work out a game plan, she turned.
And looked straight at me.
"About time you showed up," she said.
I froze.
She was talking.
The witch smiled gently. "Well? Are you going to sit there gawking like a baby chick or come get a biscuit?"
Her voice was so gentle and warm, I'd never felt both completely safe and absolutely confused at the same time.
I hopped forward, still cautious. She didn't move, just stood there with her hands on her hips, like she'd been expecting me for weeks.
I landed on her porch railing. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a small crumb of something golden and steaming.
I didn't mean to leap at it.
It just happened.
It was warm. Buttery. Fluffy. Slightly sweet with a hint of cinnamon.
I made an undignified coo of pleasure and then realized she was watching me with one raised eyebrow.
"Rude not to say thank you, you know," she said. "Even for birds."
I flapped my wings and chirped apologetically.
She snorted. "Better. Though you've got the manners of a squirrel."
She turned and walked inside.
I waited. Unsure. Do I follow? Was that an invitation or a test? Do birds knock?
Before I could decide, she returned with a tiny saucer of water and another crumb of bread. She placed them both on the railing beside me.
"I don't know what you are, exactly," she said softly, sitting in a creaky wooden chair nearby. "But you're not just a bird. I can feel it."
I tilted my head.
"You've got human eyes. Sad ones too."
I blinked. That was... a lot.
She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a small journal. "When the forest whispers about someone, I listen. And lately? It's been whispering about a bird who fell from the sky and landed without breaking."
The forest… whispered?
"I've seen souls get second chances before," she continued, scribbling something in the journal. "A frog that remembered how to pray. A fox with a soldier's nightmares. But you…"
She looked at me again, eyes sharp and kind all at once. "You're tired. You're trying to rest. But life's already pulling at you again."
I chirped softly.
"You don't have to do anything here," she said, as if she'd read the thought right off my feathers. "Not unless you want to. You're welcome to stay. Sleep. Fly. Sing. Or just exist."
She stood and walked back toward the garden.
"Take your time, little soul."
I stayed on the railing a long time after she left.
I didn't understand what she meant.
But something in me, a part I thought had gone numb, flickered excitedly.
Not quite hope.
But maybe the beginning of it.