A little starling sat in Prisma's garden. Its beak opened wide — but no sound came out.
She picked it up gently. The little starling fluttered its wings and sighed against her cheek.
Prisma marched toward the Whispering Hills. Wind rushed past — children laughing, doors creaking, bells ringing.
She pressed her fingers to her ears, then kept walking. A low hum pulled her forward.
The hills opened into Moonflower Valley. Silver moonflowers pulsed like tiny lanterns.
She knelt at the brightest flower and pressed her palm against its warm petals. Golden shimmer drifted up.
The shimmer floated through the air and settled into the starling's open beak.
The bird threw its head back and released a bright, musical trill. Every moonflower glowed even brighter.
Prisma wrapped both arms around the singing starling and smiled. It hopped onto her finger and sang on.
She walked home through the dark path. The little bird's song lit the way.
The whole village seemed to hum along. Prisma smiled and kept walking.
The little starling sang all the way home, and Prisma's heart was full.
