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"The Silence After the Storm"

When the storm passed, the forest held its breath.

For hours the rain had battered the trees like drums of war, and the wind howled like a thousand wolves. But now, everything was still. Leaves clung heavy with water, and broken branches littered the ground. The sky was a pale gray sheet, stretched thin and quiet.

From the hollow of an old oak, a small finch named Lira peeked out. Her feathers were soaked, her wings stiff. All through the night, she had kept her chicks warm under her body, listening to the fury outside, whispering stories to them to keep their tiny hearts calm.

Now, cautiously, she stepped out.

The forest was unrecognizable—flattened nests, puddles where there were once paths, and the deep scent of wet earth. But then came a sound—faint, soft, uncertain.

A single chirp.

From across the clearing, an old crow named Brann fluttered down from a leaning pine. His wing was scraped, but he stood tall. He looked at Lira and nodded.

More birds appeared. A robin with one tail feather missing. A pair of jays, their bright crests dimmed with mud. A young starling, dazed but alive.

No one spoke, not at first. But then a thrush sang.

It was not the clear, rolling tune of usual mornings—this was slower, raw, a song shaped by survival. But it was a song. And it echoed, gently, through the battered trees.

One by one, the birds joined in. Not to forget the storm—but to remind one another they were still here. That the branches would grow back. That nests could be rebuilt. That even in the silence after the storm, there could be music again.

High above, the clouds began to part, and a single shaft of sunlight spilled through the canopy.

The forest breathed again.