Rowan's Song

The way back home

Chapter One

There was a cottage, small as a whisper and twice as quiet, sitting near the edge of the sea in Donegal. It leaned into the wind like an old man leaning into a walking stick. Moss curled on the roof like a sleepy cat. Salt clung to the stones. And inside that cottage lived a girl named Aisling, who barely spoke anymore not because she couldn’t, but because there was no one left who listened.

Her father, once a man of stories, hadn’t said much since the spring took her mother. He rose with the sun, tended the sheep on the hills, and returned with his eyes fixed on the fire as if he were waiting for it to say something back.

So Aisling spoke to the things that still had voices; the waves, the wind, and the trees behind the cottage that clattered like old women gossiping. She didn’t always understand their language, but it didn’t stop her from trying.

She wore her mother’s shawl most days, even though it smelled faintly of thyme and time and had more holes than wool. She walked the hills barefoot, carrying her father’s old basket, looking for herbs and thistles to help his cough.

That morning was softer than most. The fog hung low, like the sky had leaned down to rest its head on the earth for a while. The sea beyond the cliffs was quiet, breathing in and out, in and out, like it too had grown tired.

Aisling had wandered farther than usual, her basket half full and her thoughts elsewhere. She was thinking of a lullaby her mother used to hum. Something about a wren and a river and how it always ended just before the part where the bird took flight.

That’s when she heard it. A sound that didn’t belong.

Not quite a cry. Not quite a flutter. Like cloth tearing slowly, or wind caught in a jar.

She followed it, heart ticking faster now. Through the reeds. Past a clump of elder trees. Down a path that wasn’t really a path just the space where things had once grown and no longer did.

And there, nestled in a thorny patch where no one had reason to look, was a swan.

Its wing was bent oddly, feathers tangled with thistle and dried bramble. Its eyes, sharp and dark, met hers the moment she stepped close.

“Oh,” Aisling knelt down slowly, setting her basket aside. “What happened to you?”

The swan didn’t hiss or struggle. It didn’t flap or cry. It simply watched.

“I won’t hurt you,” she said softly. “I’ll help if you let me.”

She reached out, her fingers gentle as rain. The thorns didn’t seem to touch her. Her hand moved through them like they’d bent out of respect. Carefully, she freed the wing, finding it warm but trembling beneath her touch.

The swan blinked.

And Aisling felt something strange, like she’d stepped into a story, one not yet told.

She stayed until the sun bent low in the sky, wrapping the wing in a clean strip of cloth she tore from the hem of her dress. She laid soft moss beneath the bird and sang her mother’s lullaby, the one with the wren and the river, stopping just before the bird took flight, just like her mother used to.

The swan’s eyes closed. It didn’t sleep, not really. Just rested. Trusted.

When she returned home that evening, her father didn’t ask where she’d been. He just looked at her hands; scratched, red, but not bleeding and nodded toward the hearth.

That night, as the wind brushed against the window, Aisling found a single white feather on the doorstep. It gleamed faintly, though no moon shone.

She picked it up. It was warm.

Chapter Two

The sun hadn’t broken through the fog yet when Aisling slipped out the door. She didn’t tell her father where she was going. She just nodded when he glanced up from his tea, then tucked the white feather into her shawl and stepped barefoot into the morning.

The feather still felt warm, which made no sense. It should’ve cooled overnight, should’ve felt like any other thing left to the damp air. But it hadn’t. She held it close, like a charm, though she didn’t believe in charms, or hadn’t, until yesterday.

The path to the glen looked different. The trees stood straighter, somehow. The wind moved slower, like it was waiting. Even the birds, usually clattering about with their busy songs, were silent.

She walked carefully through the elder trees, her feet finding the steps without needing her eyes. And when she reached the clearing, she stopped.

The thistle patch was still there, but the thorns had loosened. Pulled back, almost politely, from where the swan rested.

It was awake.

Its neck curved like a question mark. Its wing still wrapped, but neater now. She hadn’t done that. She remembered how sloppy her knot was, how the cloth kept slipping.

Now it looked like a healer’s touch had been there overnight.

“Good morning,” she whispered.

The swan didn’t answer, of course. But it dipped its head once, so smoothly, so deliberately, it felt like an answer anyway.

Aisling sat cross legged on the moss and laid out a few herbs: marigold, clover, and a pinch of dried nettle. “These are for you,” she said, though she wasn’t sure swans ate any of those things. “Or maybe you’re not hungry at all.”

The swan blinked slowly, then turned its head toward the sea. A wind came in just then, not harsh, but not soft either and the feather in her shawl stirred against her chest.

That’s when she heard the hum.

Not a voice. Not a tune. Just a low, living hum that seemed to come from the earth beneath her.

She looked around. Nothing moved but the swan’s feathers and the edge of the sea far beyond.

The air felt thicker now. The way it did before a storm. Or before something new.

She stayed with the swan all morning. Said little. Sang only once, and softly. The lullaby again, because she didn’t know any others. And when she reached the part just before the bird took flight, she paused, as always.

But this time, the swan moved.

It lifted its good wing just slightly, as though remembering what it felt like to rise.

Aisling blinked. “You know that song?”

The swan didn’t answer, but she didn’t need one.

It knew.

She returned the next day. And the next. She brought berries, stitched a better wrap for its wing, and talked about the kinds of things no one else would listen to; the dreams she barely remembered, the stories her mother told, the way the sea changed color depending on how sad you were.

Every day, the glen grew quieter, but never lonely.

Every evening, another feather appeared on her doorstep.

They were never dirty. Never damp. Each one clean, warm, and placed just so.

She kept them in a small wooden box beside her bed. After the sixth one, she no longer wondered how they got there.

One evening, a neighbor came calling, old Bríd, who lived near the edge of the village and knew things most people forgot.

Bríd sat by the fire with her boots off and a mug of tea warming her hands. She looked around the cottage, then at Aisling, then at the small bundle of white feathers on the windowsill.

“Where’d those come from?” she asked.

Aisling hesitated. “Found them near the cliffs.”

Bríd smiled with one side of her mouth. “Feathers like that don’t blow in with the wind. They come when they’re meant to.”

Aisling didn’t answer. Just looked into her cup.

Bríd sipped her tea, eyes sharp beneath her wool cap. “There’s an old tale,” she said. “About a boy turned to feathers. Anger did it. Pride, maybe. Depends on who tells it. But the wind took his voice, and only kindness could bring it back.”

Aisling looked up.

Bríd leaned in close. “You haven’t been singing to the wind, have you?”

Aisling flushed. “No.”

Bríd leaned back. “Good. The wind’s a jealous thing.”

She finished her tea, said nothing more, and left as quietly as she came.

That night, Aisling lay in bed with the box of feathers beside her, the shawl pulled tight around her shoulders. Outside, the wind rose, gentler this time. Not searching. Not bitter.

Just listening.

And in her sleep, she dreamed of a boy with wings tucked close and eyes like glass, sitting by a fire that did not burn.

Chapter Three

It rained the next morning. Not a hard rain, but the kind that taps gently against windows like it’s asking permission to come inside. The kind that makes everything smell like earth and old stone.

Aisling stood barefoot on the threshold, shawl pulled tight around her, watching the trees bend with the weight of it. The path to the glen would be slippery. The thistles would be heavy with water. But still she had to go.

She didn’t say a word to her father. He didn’t ask. They had fallen into a quiet agreement: she came and went as she pleased, and he trusted she wouldn’t get lost. He was right about that. She never got lost.

Not in the glen.

She followed the same worn trail, though the mud pulled at her steps and the sky stayed low. The air smelled green, and the birds had tucked themselves away, but the land still felt awake.

The thistles had bowed under the weight of the rain. But the center of the glen, where the swan had made its nest, was untouched. Dry, somehow. Almost warm. Like the rain had gone around it.

Aisling stepped through the brambles.

The swan was waiting.

It stood now, not fully upright, but not slumped either. One foot in the moss, the other tucked beneath its feathers. The wing she had wrapped was folded gently against its side. Not healed yet. But close.

“You’re stronger today,” she said, smiling.

The swan blinked. Then lowered its head and reached, delicately, into the nest. It pulled something forward with its beak: a stone. Smooth. Round. Not native to Donegal.

Aisling picked it up carefully. It was dark green, almost black, with a shimmer beneath the surface like light caught in deep water. She turned it in her hand, frowning.

“I’ve never seen a stone like this before.”

The swan said nothing. Of course it didn’t. But something in the glen shifted as she held it. The trees hushed. The wind fell still. Even the rain stopped tapping the leaves overhead.

She slipped the stone into her pocket.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

That night, she couldn’t sleep.

The stone sat on her table beside the box of feathers. It seemed to hum when the fire cracked. Not a sound, exactly, but a feeling in her chest, like the end of a song she didn’t know the beginning of.

She picked it up once, held it near her ear, and swore she heard the sea. Not waves. Not gulls. Just the deep, endless pull of it. And something else beneath. Something ancient. Waiting.

The next day, the sky cleared. The path was dry, and the glen looked brighter than it had in weeks.

The swan stood taller now, its body curved like a bow waiting to be drawn.

When Aisling arrived, it turned to face her. And for the first time, it moved toward her, three steps, then still.

She froze. Not afraid, exactly. Just full of something new. A feeling that pressed up behind her ribs. Not fear. Not joy.

Something between.

The swan dipped its head. And then, softly, it opened its beak and let out a sound.

,

It was a note. A single, clear note, like the first word of a song you know but can’t place. It echoed through the glen, low and golden and impossibly human.

Aisling’s breath caught.

The swan closed its beak, then looked up at her. And in that look, she saw something impossible.

Recognition.

Not like an animal looking at a familiar hand.

Like a person remembering a name.

Later that night, she returned home in silence. Her father was already asleep. The box of feathers had spilled on the floor somehow, scattered like petals.

She picked them up one by one, careful not to damage them. When she reached the last, she found the green stone beneath it, now warm, pulsing faintly.

She sat by the fire and held it in her hands.

And without thinking, without knowing why, she began to hum.

Not the lullaby this time.

A new song.

One she hadn’t learned, but had somehow always known.

Chapter Four

The song stayed with her.

Even after the fire died down and the cottage faded into its soft hush of creaks and wind, Aisling still heard the melody in her chest. It moved through her like breath; simple, slow, sad in places, but beautiful all the same. She didn’t hum it aloud. She didn’t need to. The song was hers now, in the way dreams sometimes linger long after waking.

The next morning came warm and windless. Aisling slipped the green stone into her pocket and walked the now familiar path to the glen. Her hands itched the way they did when something was about to happen. Not something bad just something.

She passed the thistles. They’d grown taller, but bowed as she moved through them. The brambles had parted before her feet. The glen no longer felt like a hidden place. It felt like it had opened itself for her.

And the swan was waiting.

Not in the nest. Not in the moss.

It stood in the center of the glen now, tall and still. The sun filtered through the trees and lit its feathers like snow before a storm.

She stopped. So did the world.

The swan looked at her and blinked slowly, once.

Then it stepped forward.

Then again.

Then once more.

And something changed.

The air around it shimmered, like heat rising from stone. The green beneath its feet rippled. Feathers lifted as if from a breeze that wasn’t there. And right before Aisling’s eyes, the shape began to bend; not violently, not suddenly; but like a shadow turning toward the light.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

She watched as the creature she’d nursed, the swan she’d sung to, began to shift.

Wings folded back and sank into shoulders. Feathers pulled inward. Legs reshaped. The curve of a beak became the bridge of a nose.

Aisling gasped without realizing it.

Where the swan had stood now stood a boy.

Barefoot. Shivering. Dark eyed, with wind tangled hair and skin pale as the moon. A linen wrap, her wrap, still hung from one arm like a broken memory.

He was no older than sixteen.

He looked down at his hands, then up at her. And though he opened his mouth, no sound came out.

He tried again. Still nothing.

Aisling stepped forward slowly. Her voice caught in her throat. She had no idea what to say to a boy who’d once been a swan.

So she didn’t say anything.

She just reached for the linen hanging from his arm and rewound it carefully, fingers trembling.

The boy didn’t flinch.

When she finished, she looked up into his eyes. They weren’t just sad. They were full. Like a sky about to rain after a long drought.

Then, with effort, he raised one hand and pressed it to his chest. Then reached out and touched her shoulder.

It was the simplest gesture she’d ever seen.

But it meant everything.

They sat in the glen for hours. The boy didn’t speak, not once, but he listened. She told him her name. He nodded. She told him about the lullaby. He closed his eyes. She asked if he remembered being a swan.

He looked away.

When she asked if he was cold, he shook his head. But she offered him her shawl anyway.

And he took it.

That night, Aisling didn’t go straight home. She led the boy; carefully, quietly; along the narrow trail behind the cottage to the old stone shed. No one used it anymore, not since her mother passed. It had a roof, a cot, a window that faced the sea.

She brought him bread and water. A blanket. An extra sweater of her father’s.

She didn’t ask his name. Not yet.

Some names, she thought, take time to return.

The next morning, she found him sitting by the window, humming. Just three notes. But they were hers. The ones she’d dreamed. The song that waited.

His voice was soft and low and cracked at the edges, but real. Human.

Alive.

She sat beside him and listened. When he finished, he looked at her, and this time when he opened his mouth

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Chapter Five

He didn’t speak often.

The boy with eyes like rain and hands that still remembered how to fly said little in the days that followed. But when he did speak, Aisling listened with her whole self.

He told his story the way someone tells a dream they’ve only just remembered. In pieces. Out of order. Sometimes with pauses so long she thought he’d forgotten the rest, but he hadn’t. He just needed time to find it again.

His name was Rowan.

He said it one morning as the gulls wheeled overhead and the sea breathed quietly against the rocks. They were sitting on the stone wall behind the shed, her shawl wrapped around his shoulders, his bare feet swinging just above the grass.

“Aisling,” he’d said softly.

She turned.

“My name. it’s Rowan.”

The name fit him, she thought. Like something old and made of trees.

The story came slowly after that.

“I wasn’t always…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Just looked out toward the water.

Aisling nodded.

“There was a voice,” he said. “A singing voice. A girl. I heard it once, a long time ago. High on a cliff.”

She waited.

“She was singing to the wind. For fun, maybe. But the wind doesn’t like to be played with.”

His voice cracked. He cleared his throat.

“I followed the sound. I wanted it for myself. I was foolish. Young. I caught the last note in my hands, the way you might catch a moth. I didn’t think it would matter.”

Aisling’s eyes widened slightly. “You caught a song?”

Rowan gave a small, sad smile. “That’s how the wind saw it. And the wind,” he paused “it has no patience for thieves.”

She shivered, though the morning was warm.

“I lost my voice first. That was the wind’s doing. Then came the feathers. Slowly. Not all at once. First in dreams, then at the edges of mirrors. I couldn’t stop it.”

He looked down at his hands.

“My mother tried. She was a healer. She gave me roots, salves, charms carved in elderwood. But it wasn’t her magic the wind had taken. It was mine.”

Aisling didn’t speak.

“By the time I fully turned,” Rowan said, “I had already forgotten what I sounded like. And worse, I’d forgotten how to be still. I was all wings and sky and silence.”

“How long?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer at first. Just pressed his palm flat against the stone beneath them.

“I think years. Maybe longer. Swans don’t count days.”

That afternoon, she brought him warm broth and a dry shirt. He told her about the places he’d flown; dark lakes, forgotten ruins, distant fields where no one walked. But always, always, the pull of the sea brought him back.

“And the glen?” she asked. “Why here?”

He looked at her then, and his answer was so soft she barely caught it.

“Because this is where the song ended.”

A chill passed through her.

“My mother’s lullaby?” she asked. “That one?”

He shook his head. “No. Yours. The one you hum when you think no one’s listening.”

She looked down.

“You never finished it,” he added. “That’s what kept me. You left a space like you were waiting for someone else to sing it with you.”

That night, Aisling sat alone by the fire, the green stone warm in her hand again.

Something in her heart ached, not in a painful way, but in the way flowers ache toward sunlight. Like something inside her had recognized Rowan before she ever knew his name.

And she realized something else too.

This wasn’t just about a curse.

It was about a return.

About a kindness so quiet, even the wind had to listen.

The next day, Rowan showed her his back. Just beneath his shoulder blades, two faint white markings, like scars or sleep worn wings.

“I don’t know if they’ll come back,” he said.

Aisling touched one gently.

“Maybe they’re not supposed to,” she whispered.

And she meant it.

Chapter Six

The days settled into a quiet rhythm, soft as the morning mist that curled around the trees.

Rowan didn’t speak much, and Aisling didn’t push. Instead, they shared silence. An easy, healing kind of silence. Sometimes, they sat side by side on the stone wall, watching the sea whisper against the shore, or wandered through the glen where the sunlight sifted like gold dust.

Rowan’s hands, once restless, began to still. The strange itch of feathers beneath his skin faded to a gentle warmth. He learned to breathe in deep, slow gulps, like a child learning to swim. And in the silence, the melody Aisling had hummed so long ago seemed to return, soft and trembling at first, then steadying like a heartbeat.

One afternoon, as a gentle breeze moved through the leaves, Rowan reached out and took her hand.

It was the first time he’d touched her without hesitation.

The green stone in her pocket pulsed warmly, as if it, too, understood.

“Do you ever miss flying?” Aisling asked quietly one day.

Rowan looked up at the sky, a shadow crossing his pale face.

“Sometimes,” he said. “But the sky can be lonely when you have no voice to call back.”

Aisling squeezed his hand.

“You have a voice now,” she told him.

He smiled, a slow, shy curve of lips.

“But I’m still learning to use it.”

That evening, Aisling brought out the old lute her father had once played. She strummed a few hesitant chords, then began to sing the lullaby she’d sung to the swan, to the glen, to the stars.

Rowan closed his eyes and listened.

The notes wrapped around him like a warm blanket, and when she finished, a single tear traced down his cheek.

“I think I remember,” he whispered.

Night after night, the music grew stronger. Rowan’s voice joined hers, low and clear, and though it cracked and wavered, it filled the space between them with something new. Hope.

And slowly, the wings beneath his skin began to retreat.

The silence that had wrapped itself around him like chains was breaking.

One morning, Rowan woke to find a single white feather on his pillow.

He held it up to the light, a quiet smile spreading.

“Maybe,” he said softly, “some parts of me will always fly.”

Aisling nodded.

“And some parts will always stay.”

They looked at each other then, the weight of words hanging gently between them.

Neither needed to say more.

Chapter Seven

The glen breathed quietly in the early morning, wrapped in a soft mist that caught the light like spun silver. Dew clung to the ferns and wildflowers, and the faint scent of heather and pine drifted on the air.

Aisling and Rowan walked slowly along the mossy path, their steps light on the earth. Rowan’s fingers brushed the leaves, trailing along the delicate veins as if reading a secret language written in green.

“You can hear it, can’t you?” Aisling said softly.

Rowan nodded, his eyes wide with wonder.

“The glen whispers,” she said, “but only to those who listen with their hearts.”

Rowan smiled, still learning to trust the quiet spaces. His voice was stronger now, but he didn’t need to fill the silence. Sometimes, silence was enough.

They came to the heart of the glen, where ancient oaks arched toward the sky, their branches woven like a cathedral’s vault.

Here, Aisling reached into her satchel and pulled out a small pouch of herbs—wild thyme, rosemary, and a pinch of lavender.

“This is to help you remember,” she said, sprinkling the herbs on the ground.

Rowan watched, curiosity shining in his eyes.

“Remember what?” he asked.

“Who you are,” Aisling replied.

She sat cross legged on the soft grass, patting the spot beside her.

Rowan hesitated, then joined her, the soft rustle of his clothes mingling with the gentle sigh of the breeze.

For a long time, they sat in silence. Then, slowly, Rowan began to hum a low, trembling note that floated upward, weaving itself through the trees.

Aisling’s face lit with a smile.

“Good,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes, feeling the song stir inside him like a sleeping bird.

The glen seemed to lean in, listening.

When the humming grew into a melody, Aisling began to sing along, her voice a clear thread weaving through the woodland hush.

Rowan’s song grew stronger, steadier, and the glen responded. Leaves shimmered, and a gentle wind stirred the branches, carrying the music like a blessing.

The magic in the air was not like thunder or fire. It was soft and warm, like the touch of an old friend.

Days passed like this, filled with song and quiet discovery.

Rowan learned to move with the glen, to understand its language of rustling leaves and whispered secrets.

He found joy in small things: the way a squirrel’s tail flicked, the glimmer of spider silk in the sun, the way moss felt beneath his fingers.

Aisling watched him grow, her heart swelling with hope.

She knew their journey was far from over, but for now, the glen was a sanctuary, a place where wings could grow strong again without fear.

One afternoon, as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows that danced through the trees, Rowan turned to Aisling.

“Thank you,” he said, voice steady and clear.

“For what?” she asked.

“For teaching me to listen,” he replied. “To the world. To myself.”

Aisling smiled, the weight of those words settling deep inside her.

That night, they sat beneath a blanket of stars, the glen hushed except for the occasional hoot of an owl.

Rowan leaned his head against Aisling’s shoulder.

“Do you think the song will ever end?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she said softly. “Or maybe it will just change, like everything else.”

He closed his eyes, a peaceful smile on his lips.

The next morning, Aisling found a small gift waiting for her by the stone wall. A delicate feather, white and soft as new snow.

She held it close, feeling the promise it carried.

Some stories don’t end. They simply carry on, carried by the wind and the hearts that dare to listen.

Chapter Eight

Morning stretched lazily over the glen, and sunlight poured through the canopy like liquid gold. The air smelled sweet and fresh, carrying the scent of blooming wildflowers and damp earth.

Rowan woke with a start, not from fear, but from a feeling of warmth that wrapped around him like a soft cloak. He blinked, the faint glow of dawn filtering through the leaves. Beside him, Aisling was already awake, her eyes sparkling with quiet joy.

“Good morning,” she whispered.

Rowan smiled, the sound of her voice like a balm to his soul.

“Good morning,” he replied, voice stronger than yesterday.

They rose together and wandered to the clearing where the sunlight pooled like honey. The glen was alive with the gentle stirrings of the day; birds chirping, bees buzzing, leaves rustling in the soft breeze.

Aisling pulled out her lute and began to play. The notes drifted through the trees, a song both old and new, weaving through the air like a gentle spell.

Rowan closed his eyes, letting the music fill him. When the tune ended, he found himself humming the melody, a clear note rising from deep inside.

“You’re singing!” Aisling said, eyes wide with wonder.

Rowan laughed softly.

“I think I’m finding my voice.”

Days turned into weeks, and the glen became their sanctuary. Rowan’s voice grew stronger, more confident, filling the space with warmth and light.

He sang to the trees, the flowers, and the sky. His song was not perfect, but it was true.

Aisling taught him to listen; to the rhythm of the earth, the whisper of the wind, the heartbeat of the glen.

Together, their music created a harmony that seemed to awaken something ancient and beautiful.

One afternoon, as they rested beneath the oaks, Rowan spoke quietly.

“Do you think the swan will ever come back?” he asked.

Aisling smiled gently.

“Maybe,” she said. “But even if it doesn’t, its song lives on, in you.”

Rowan looked down at his hands, still tingling with a faint warmth where the feathers had been.

“I feel like I’m becoming whole again,” he said.

Aisling reached out, taking his hand.

“You are,” she whispered.

That night, the glen was bathed in moonlight, silver and soft. The stars twinkled like scattered diamonds, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of jasmine and pine.

Rowan and Aisling sat side by side, sharing stories and dreams. They spoke of the future, of music and laughter, of light and love.

And as the night deepened, Rowan sang a lullaby so tender it seemed to hold the whole world in its embrace.

Aisling listened, her heart full.

The next morning, a new visitor arrived. A small, shy fox with bright eyes and a curious nose. It watched from the shadows, drawn by the music that filled the glen.

Rowan and Aisling welcomed the fox with open arms, sharing their songs and stories.

Together, they discovered that even the smallest voice could make a difference, and that friendship could grow in the most unexpected places.

Weeks passed, and the glen thrived with life and song. Rowan’s wings had disappeared, but the spirit of flight lived on in his heart.

He was no longer the silent boy with feathers beneath his skin. He was a young man who had found his voice and his place in the world.

And with Aisling by his side, the song would only grow stronger.

Chapter Nine

The glen had become a place where time seemed to stretch and fold, where every moment was touched by quiet magic. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on the soft earth. The air was alive with the scent of blooming wildflowers and fresh rain.

Rowan awoke to the sound of birdsong, their melodies weaving together like a shimmering cloth. He stretched, feeling the earth beneath him pulse with life.

Aisling was already awake, her eyes bright with a secret joy.

“Today feels different,” she said, her voice soft like the breeze.

Rowan smiled, curiosity stirring in his chest.

“Different how?” he asked.

Aisling stood and reached for her lute. As she strummed the first notes, a gentle glow began to rise around them, soft and warm, like the first light of dawn.

“The glen is inviting us to dance,” she said.

Rowan laughed, feeling the music wrap around him like a gentle wind.

They moved through the glen together, their steps light and free. The leaves rustled and shimmered, as if joining in the dance. Rowan felt the rhythm in his bones, the pulse of the earth guiding his movements.

With each step, the glen seemed to come alive. The flowers bent toward them, the trees swayed in time, and the light flickered like fireflies.

It was a dance of life and hope, a celebration of the magic that had brought them here.

As the day wore on, other creatures appeared; squirrels with bright eyes, rabbits that hopped joyfully through the underbrush, and birds that sang in harmony with Aisling’s lute.

Rowan felt a deep connection to everything around him, a sense of belonging he had never known before.

He twirled beneath the branches, the sunlight catching the edges of his hair like strands of gold.

“This is more than a glen,” he said softly. “It’s a home.”

Aisling nodded, her smile warm and knowing.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows that danced with the trees, Rowan sat beside Aisling near a crackling fire.

They shared stories and laughter, the flames flickering like tiny stars.

Rowan felt a peace he had never known. The peace of being seen and accepted, of having found his place.

As the night deepened, Aisling took his hand.

“There is something I want to show you,” she said, her eyes shining with a quiet excitement.

She led him deeper into the glen, where the trees grew tall and close, their branches entwined like old friends.

There, in a small clearing, was a pool of water so clear it mirrored the sky.

Aisling knelt beside it and motioned for Rowan to do the same.

“Look into the water,” she said.

Rowan peered into the still surface and saw not just his reflection but a shimmer beneath; images of his past, his journey, and the path ahead.

The pool showed him memories he had buried. The fear and loneliness, but also the courage and kindness that had carried him through.

He saw himself growing stronger, more certain, a light shining from within.

Aisling smiled.

“The glen has helped you remember,” she said. “And now, it’s time to share your song with the world.”

Rowan took a deep breath, feeling the truth of her words settle inside him.

He was ready.

The night was filled with stars as they returned to the fire, the glen alive with quiet magic.

Rowan’s heart was full, his voice strong and steady.

He sang for the creatures of the night, for the glen, and for the future that awaited him.

The dance of light and leaves had shown him the way.

And he would follow it wherever it led.

Chapter Ten

The morning air was crisp and clear, the sky painted in soft hues of pink and gold. The glen stirred awake, as if it too felt the weight of the day to come. Rowan stood at the edge of the clearing, looking out over the place that had become his sanctuary, his home.

Beside him, Aisling tuned her lute, a quiet determination in her eyes.

“Are you ready?” she asked softly.

Rowan nodded, feeling a steady calm settle over him.

“I am.”

For weeks now, their music had filled the glen, weaving magic and life into every corner. But today was different. Today, Rowan would sing not just for the glen or its creatures, but for the wider world beyond the trees and hills.

He felt a mixture of excitement and nervousness, but beneath it all was a growing confidence. A belief that his voice mattered.

The creatures of the glen gathered around, sensing the importance of the moment. Birds perched on branches, squirrels peeked from behind tree trunks, and even the shy fox from weeks before came closer, eyes bright with curiosity.

Aisling began to play, her fingers dancing across the lute strings with a melody both ancient and new.

Rowan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then, he sang.

His voice rose, clear and true, carrying the story of his journey; the loneliness and fear, the kindness and friendship, the magic of the glen and the strength he had found within himself.

The song echoed through the trees, wrapping around every leaf and stone, touching every heart.

It was a song of hope.

A song of light.

A song that would never end.

As he sang, the glen seemed to shimmer with a newfound brilliance. The flowers opened wider, the trees stood taller, and the creatures swayed to the music.

Rowan felt the warmth of the glen’s magic rise inside him, lifting him, carrying him.

He wasn’t just a boy with hidden wings anymore.

He was a voice, strong and clear.

When the last note faded into the quiet, Rowan opened his eyes to see Aisling smiling, tears shining in her eyes.

“You’ve found your song,” she said, her voice trembling with joy.

Rowan nodded, feeling a deep gratitude swell in his chest.

“Thank you for everything.”

The glen held them close as they prepared to leave, a place that had changed them both forever.

Rowan looked back one last time, feeling the magic settle deep inside him like a steady flame.

No matter where life took him, the song would always be with him.

And so would the glen.

As they walked away, hand in hand, the world around them seemed brighter, filled with promise and possibility.

Rowan knew that this was only the beginning of his story.

The song that had saved him was now his to share.

A song that would never end.