The Garden That Used to Fly

The bird had sung its last song, though it did not know it at the time.

It had flown beyond the reach of forests, beyond cliffs and rivers, into a place where the wind no longer stirred. Here, at the heart of silence, it folded its wings, pressed its body against the soft earth, and closed its eyes.

And then—something shifted.

Feathers curled inward, dark veins thickening, stiffening, splintering into thin, winding roots. Its hollow bones cracked, but instead of breaking, they bent into branches, reaching skyward.

Its breath became the scent of wildflowers. Its heartbeat became the hum of bees. Its song became the rustling of leaves in the evening breeze.

And when the first travelers stepped into the garden that had never been there before, they swore they felt something watching—something wise, something gentle.

A presence woven into petal and vine.

A bird that had chosen, in the end, to become something endless—so it might be found again.