One morning, while the sky was still blushing with dawn, Amy found a small bird sitting quietly on her windowsill. Its feathers were soft as petals, but its eyes held a kind of sadness — the kind that made Amy’s heart ache.
“Hello,” she whispered. “Are you lost?”
The bird tilted its head but made no sound. It opened its beak once, twice — only silence came out. Amy waited. Then she smiled gently. “That’s alright. Maybe you just forgot your song.”
Every day after that, Amy spent time with the little bird. She named it Pip. She set out crumbs, sang soft lullabies, and told Pip stories about the garden outside — about the roses that would bloom in spring, and the bees that would hum between them.
At first, Pip only listened. But slowly, something began to change. When Amy hummed, Pip twitched its wings. When she laughed, Pip fluttered closer. It was as if her kindness was stirring a melody that had been sleeping deep inside him.
One sunny afternoon, Amy took Pip outside. The garden glowed — tulips lifting their faces, dandelions giggling in the breeze. She sat beneath the apple tree and began to hum again, low and sweet.
Pip hopped to her shoulder, chest rising and falling with tiny, nervous breaths. Then — a tremble, a note, soft as a sigh. Another followed, brighter this time, and then another, until the air shimmered with music.
Amy’s eyes filled with happy tears. “You remembered!” she said.
Pip sang louder, spinning through the golden light. The flowers swayed, the leaves joined in applause, and Amy began to sing with him — her voice weaving around his like sunlight through branches.
The world seemed to listen. The garden, once still, now pulsed with joy — colors deeper, air sweeter, hearts lighter.
And from that day on, whenever Amy sang, Pip sang too.
Two voices — one child, one bird — lifting together,
reminding the world that joy, once forgotten,
can always be sung back again.