It was the first snowfall of winter when the stranger knocked on my door.
I was in the kitchen, pouring tea into a chipped porcelain cup, when I heard the soft thump-thump-thump of gloved knuckles against old wood. Not many people come this far up the mountain—especially not in winter. I live alone, by choice, in a crooked house with ivy-covered stone and creaky floors. The village below hadn’t seen me in months, perhaps years.
Still, something in the knock felt... familiar.
When I opened the door, a gust of cold air swept past me, and in its center stood a figure wrapped in a long, ash-colored coat. A wide-brimmed hat hid most of the face, but a single lock of white-blond hair spilled out beneath it. The stranger held a wooden walking stick carved with feathers and stars.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” they said, their voice low and calm, “but I’ve been walking a long time, and I believe something of mine is in your keeping.”
I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. Because behind the stranger, snow fell silently in great, slow spirals, and the world held its breath.
The stranger looked up, and I saw their eyes.
One was the deep green of pine needles in spring.
The other was golden—burning softly like candlelight.
Something ancient stirred in my memory.
“Come in,” I said.
They stepped over the threshold without hesitation, leaving no footprints on my floor, though I saw the snow still clinging to their coat. I led them to the hearth, where the fire crackled, and offered them a seat and a second cup of tea. They took it with both hands, bowing their head in thanks.
“My name is Solen,” they said.
“And what is it you think I have?” I asked.
Solen smiled faintly. “A story.”
My breath caught. “You’ve come all this way... for a story?”
“Yes,” they said. “But not just any story. Yours.”
---
I watched them for a long time before I spoke again. Outside, the snow deepened. In the distance, the wind carried the lonely call of a red fox.
“My story is long,” I said finally. “And not all of it is worth remembering.”
“Still,” Solen said gently, “it must be told.”
So I told them.
I told them of how I once lived in a town of songbirds, where every child was given a name and a gift. Mine was Aeris, and my gift was to listen. Really listen—not just to words, but to the thoughts between them. The heartbeats under silence. The tremble in wings before flight.
When I was fifteen, I heard something I shouldn’t have: a secret buried beneath my mother’s voice, laced in fear. A truth not meant for me. That I was not her daughter, not born of this world at all—but left in a basket beneath a tree, on the first snowfall of the year, with a single white feather and a note that read:
“Raise her gently. One day she will return.”
I left that night.
I wandered for years, across cities and deserts, rivers and ruins. Searching for something I couldn’t name. People took me in, some kindly, some cruelly. I learned to sing like the wind, to fight like the storm, to disappear like smoke. But always, always, I felt the weight of that feather in my coat pocket, and the silence of that note echoing in my chest.
Eventually, I found this house. Or rather, it found me. I walked into the clearing one evening and there it stood—ancient, empty, waiting. I stepped inside and felt it recognize me.
I’ve lived here ever since.
---
Solen listened without speaking, their eyes glowing softly in the firelight.
When I finished, they reached into their coat and drew something out: a bird.
A living sparrow, made entirely of light.
It hovered above their palm, wings beating silently, casting gold onto the walls.
“You were never lost,” Solen said. “You were hidden. Protected. Do you know why?”
I shook my head.
“Because you were the last of the Listeners. The ones who could hear between the worlds. You were meant to awaken the sleeping stories—the forgotten songs. But the world turned too fast. Too loud. And so you were hidden, until it was quiet enough to remember.”
The sparrow fluttered toward me and landed on my shoulder. Warmth spread through me, deep and familiar.
“You are the door,” Solen whispered. “And the key.”
I looked up. My voice trembled. “And what do I do now?”
Solen stood. “You listen. And you return what was lost.”
They opened the front door, and the snow beyond had stopped. In its place was a sky I had never seen—lavender clouds, two pale moons, stars that sang in threads of silver.
I stepped forward. The air shimmered.
Solen turned once more. “The world is waiting.”
And I walked through.
---
I am writing this now not from the crooked house on the mountain, but from a place where memory and magic intertwine.
A land that hums beneath your feet and speaks in the language of birds and rivers.
I sit under a tree made of wind and flame, telling stories to children with starlight in their eyes. Some of them were lost. Some were abandoned. Some were simply waiting to be found.
And I tell them: A stranger may come to your door one day. Do not be afraid.
They may come for a story.
Or they may bring you back to your own.
----------
The End
-----------
React
