The young messenger stepped onto the winding cobblestone path, his leather satchel heavy on his shoulder. The morning sun warmed the stones as he passed the baker's shop, where flour dust hung in the golden air like shimmering stars.
He handed a letter to the baker's daughter, who read it aloud and laughed — her shoes thumping joyfully against the stone. The young messenger smiled, adjusted his satchel, and continued toward the next village.
By midday, the young messenger had delivered twelve letters. But the last envelope in his satchel was thick and sealed with purple wax — addressed to a woman in the palace tower who had not been seen in weeks.
He knocked at the tower door — once, twice, three times. Only silence answered. The wind carried the sound of a bell tolling from the village far below.
Through the tower window, the young messenger saw a small garden on the ledge — herbs wilting in dry earth. A sparrow perched on the sill, pecking at a fallen seed. He broke off a piece of bread and tossed it gently. The sparrow caught it and chirped — a bright sudden sound that made the messenger's head tilt toward the window.
The young messenger pressed his ear to the cold stone wall and heard faint humming — a melody the sparrow seemed to know. He remembered the baker's daughter humming that same tune. His fingers found the purple-waxed envelope again, and he began to climb the winding steps around the tower.
At the top, the young messenger found a girl with ink-stained fingers sitting beside an open window, surrounded by scrolls and drying herbs. She read the letter and her face transformed — the same bright light he had seen on a dozen villagers. She reached for a silver coin stamped with the king's face, but the messenger shook his head and pointed to the sparrow hovering at the windowsill.
The girl understood. She smiled and placed a fresh seed on the ledge. The young messenger watched the sparrow take it, then turned to walk back down the winding path, his satchel light and empty.
The sun was lower now, painting the village roofs in orange. The young messenger walked more slowly, his empty satchel bouncing lightly. The bell from the village church rang softly behind him.
Behind him, the bell from the village church rang softly. The young messenger's steps were slower but happier, his satchel light and empty on his shoulder as the golden light followed him home.
