The world was broken, and the man walked in silence.

If sound still existed, his footsteps would have mashed quietly into the grass. His cloak would have rustled as it trailed behind him, and his heart would have beat in his chest. If taste were still a concept, he would have felt the tang of citrus drifting in the wind—the taste of air tainted by the salted sea. And if he had his voice…

He would have been singing. But no, he wasn’t singing. He couldn’t.

There was no singing in the shattered world.

And so, he walked in silence.

He didn’t know how far he traveled in the darkness. Or how long. It could have been a moment, or it could have been an eternity. It was funny, how little the difference mattered here. How insignificant it all was. The man paused as something entered his awareness.

There, the voice in his head said. The tree.

He approached it. The… tree. The thing in the void that should no longer exist. It was strange, being able to see it without seeing. Of being simply certain that it was there, instead of relying on the crutches of mortal sight. He was aware of every crag in the bark, every line on the leaves. All at once, but never in the same moment.

Because the tree was jagged. Piecemeal. Some parts of it were healthy, others withered, and some were charred by still-glowing embers. Some branches held green leaves, and others red. Some held none at all. It was as if someone had torn up several different pictures of the same tree and put the pieces together without much thought, leaving it a chaotic imitation of the real thing.

On the trunk, the voice told him. Inside the hollow.

The man approached it. There was a cavity in the bark—familiar in a way that he couldn’t put his finger on. He peered into the darkness inside and paused.

Strange. He felt stronger, here. There was a hint of sound all around him. Smell. Sight. All returning. And…

Say hello.

His voice. The man smiled kindly into the dark hollow. The wry and crooked grin of a man who’d lived through many things. “Hello,” he said, and his voice was as soft as cotton brushing over silk. “My name is,̶'̷̡͍̙̀́̿̈́͊͝;̵̜͉̝͕̦̦͋͋͌̔̽͆.̸̗͂̊̓͐,̵̗̤̗̝̩̬̅̋̽̈́͠'̴͍͚̻̹̳̤̎̃̕͠;̷̭̟͒.̶̛̛͖̥̉̿͂͑͠,̴͔̯̝̉̆̿̈̀͝͠;̵̧̲͗̆̓̃'̴̡̗̭̅̅̀̂.̴̮͙̘̓̊̃,̸̛͇͎͆̒̈́̕.. What’s yours?”

A voice answered from the other side. A boy’s.

“…Rowan.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Rowan,” said the man. “Would you like to hear a song?”

There was a pause. A beat of hesitation. Then…

“Okay.”

And the man’s grin lit up.

“Spindle trickle spiderweb, silken softened monarch’s bed,” I rhymed, muttering the meandering tune under my breath as I carried the box down from the second floor. Empty flasks clattered about inside. “King of Kaine seven-times wed, sun shining on his big, bald head. Don’t let him catch ya sleepin’ on his bed, or he’ll call the guards and kill ya dead. Barking braggart peasant pet…”

I trailed off. I was out of rhymes. Did bread rhyme with pet? I shrugged. Eh. I’d figure it out later.

It was just a pointless little song, anyhow. But I liked it. Because it was mine.

I wondered if the Singing Tree would like it too.

“Careful down the stairs, Rowan. Don’t drop the box!” a voice called from the basement, muffled through the wooden floorboards. I rolled my eyes and stuck out my tongue.

“Yes, mother!” I replied. Just to entertain her.

Hmph. As if I would fall down the stairs at my age. I’d stopped doing that when I turned eight, two years ago. Ancestors, mother. I was smarter than that now. I reached the bottom step—and I knew because I counted the steps—and stopped. I took the last stair down and my foot touched the kitchen floor. I grinned.

Perfectly done.

I shuffled over to the basement stairs, peeking out from the corner of the box I was carrying. I carefully counted the steps again. Three… six… ten—

A shadow loomed over me from behind. Huh. I blinked and looked up.

It was father. Tall, tall father. He looked down at me with his crystal-amber eyes, and I couldn’t help but feel jealous of his appearance. He was a walking hill. No, a mountain! Eight feet tall, skin of stone, and mossy hair. A powerful troll, hailing from a distant realm.

Compared to me, who inherited most of mother’s amarid traits, he was way more awesome. Awesomer?

I frowned at that.

“Is it more awesome or awesomer, father?”

He thought for a moment. Then shrugged. “What do you think?”

“I think awesomer is cooler.”

“Then that’s what it is,” he said, grinning, and I beamed back. He pointed to the box in my arms. “Do you want help carrying that down?”

I quickly shook my head. Just because I was slim like mother didn’t mean that I wasn’t strong like him. I had to show him that.

“I can do it by myself, father.”

“You sure?” he teased, “That looks heavy.”

“Hmph. I can lift heavier, easierly.”

“That’s cool!” he laughed—using the word I taught him—and he ruffled the broad, autumn-orange leaves that were my hair. “Go on and get it to your mother, then. I’m counting on you to do it extra carefully!”

I bobbed my head. “I got it!”

I ambled down the stairs, and behind me, I heard father rumble out a second chuckle. His loud steps echoed off towards the workshop behind the house. Back to working again, probably. Making murder weapons and stuff. Or shovels and shears. Usually shears.

But he made axes sometimes. And knives. Father was cool like that.

It was too bad he didn’t leave his workshop often. I would’ve liked to teach him more words. Like verily. And taxation! I grinned. That was a cool one.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I found mother already waiting for me. She was a short woman, with the same color of leaves for hair as mine. It was tied into a bun behind her head. Mother took the box from my hands with a quick ‘thank you’ and turned, heading back to her workstation.

I watched her from behind, her black alchemist’s coat nearly touching the floor. Her hands moved quickly. One movement after another, never stopping. Opening a burner on one side, then lowering the heat on another. Catching clouds in a bottle after boiling a mixture. Grinding herbs and crystals. Mixing. Brewing. Synthesis…ing.

And busy. Like always.

I walked up to the table where she worked, standing on my tiptoes to look at the collection of glass instruments on her table.

“…What’s that?” I asked, pointing to one jar. It had some sparkly powder in it.

“Sapphire dust,” she replied.

I waited a bit, but she didn’t say anything else. I pursed my lips. “What’s the sapphire dust do?”

No reply.

Mother stared intently at one of the boiling glasses, watching the bubbles rise. I frowned, hurt. She was always like that. Once she started working, she had no time for anything else. I wasn’t sure if she even heard my question.

Huffing, I pushed myself off the table and stomped up the stairs. I continued my fit up until I reached our backyard, where the Singing Tree was.

It was an old tree, standing taller than even the house. Its leaves cast a shade over the entire yard, and I found my feet rustling past the leaves it was beginning to shed. Yellow, orange, red. The colors were pretty, but I didn’t stop to stare at them. No, I was angry. I was upset.

Upset me didn’t like any colors. Even if they were pretty nice.

So, scowling, I sat down in front of the Singing Tree. I stared into the blackness inside of the hollow. A presence like a weight fell over me, and I knew.

The man on the other side was staring back.

“Hello again, Rowan,” it said, its voice softer than a whisper. “You seem upset.”

“I’m not,” I huffed. “Sing me a song.”

There was a pause.

“A real one?”

I nodded. I didn’t care, today. Even if the real songs made me feel cold and numb. Even if they had some sort of price I didn’t really understand. They were better distractions than the others—and definitely more interesting than mother. She was always so boring. And always so… busy. At least father talked to me sometimes. But mother?

I hated her. She never talked to me.

I hugged my knees to my chest and buried my face between them. I nodded to the tree, “Mm. Sing me a real one.”

“As you wish.”

I closed my eyes, and the ground below me began to fade as the Singing Tree began to hum. Like a spotlight, shrinking down into me until nothing was left. And then I was floating. Flying in the darkness. I felt cold winds slither past me, creeping into my toes and fingertips. Going up my arms and legs—soaking throughout my entire body. I shivered, numb, as the song began.

",̶͔́́.̵̩̅̄̆;̵̣͑̂'̶̧́̀ͅ.̶͙̳̙̋,̷̜͒;̵̨͛'̸̡̩̰͛̈͝.̷͙̈̃̆,̵͓̀̑;̷͕̭̤̈́̂̅'̶̹̩̆̀̅.̵͉̝̮̒͋͋.̶͉̫̊̃͌ͅ,̸͓͆̾̆,̶̹̲̓.̸̛̝͔͉͐̐,̸̥͙̕;̶͓͎̒̄̈́'̵̹͉̑͜;̷̧̗̫̉̈.̷̠͕̃͆̒,̶̗̗͛͜'̵̱̄̑̑'̷̪̊̾;̶̭̼͛̇͠.̷̰̥̱̽̀̒'̸͈͘,̷̱̈́̅'̸̝̫̈́͋.̷̢̍'̷̯̥̋ͅ'̷͇̝̖̓̆̈́;̶̡͖̙͐̆'̶͓̣̑̐;̶̫̋̓'̶͉̲̈̾.̴̫͐,̶̻͐̈'̴̟̰͋̑.̵̯͓̀.̴̩̓̆͝,̶̥̭͇̽̄̈́;̵̯̂̒̃.̵͚̞̾͊;̶̡̙̓̔͝ͅ'̷̹̂,̷̜͒;̵̨͛'̸̡̩̰͛̈͝.̷͙̈̃̆,̵͓̀̑;̷͕̭̤̈́̂̅'̶̹̩̆̀̅.̵͉̝̮̒͋͋

;̶̭̼͛̇͠.̷̰̥̱̽̀̒'̸͈͘,̷̱̈́̅'̸̝̫̈́͋.̷̢̍'̷̯̥̋ͅ'̷͇̝̖̓̆̈́;̶̡͖̙͐̆'̶͓̣̑̐;̶̫̋̓'̶͉̲̈̾.̴̫͐,̶̻͐̈'̴̟̰͋̑.̵̯͓̀.̴̩̓̆͝,̶̥̭͇̽̄̈́;̵̯̂̒̃.̵͚̞̾͊;̶̡̙̓̔͝ͅ'̷̹̂,̷̜͒;̵̨͛'̸̡̩̰͛̈͝.̵̩̅̄̆;̵̣͑̂'̶̧́̀ͅ.̶͙̳̙̋,̷̜͒;̵̨͛'̸̡̩̰͛̈͝.̷͙̈̃̆,̵͓̀̑;̷͕̭̤̈́̂̅'̶̹̩̆̀̅.̵͉̝̮̒͋͋.̶͉̫̊̃͌ͅ,̸͓͆̾̆,̶̹̲̓.̸̛̝͔͉͐̐,̸̥͙̕;̶͓͎̒̄̈́'̵̹͉̑͜;̷̧̗̫̉̈.̷̠͕̃͆̒,̶̗̗͛͜'̵̱̄̑̑'̷̪̊̾;̶̭̼͛̇͠.̷̰̥̱̽̀̒'̸͈͘,̷̱̈́̅'̸̝̫̈́͋.̷̢̍'̷̯̥̋ͅ'̷͇̝̖̓̆̈́

.̷̢̍'̷̯̥̋ͅ'̷͇̝̖̓̆̈́;̶̡͖̙͐̆'̶͓̣̑̐;̶̫̋̓'̶͉̲̈̾.̴̫͐,̶̻͐̈'̴̟̰͋̑.̵̯͓̀.̴̩̓̆͝,̶̥̭͇̽̄̈́;̵̯̂̒̃.̵͚̞̾͊;̶̡̙̓̔͝ͅ'̷̹̂,̷̜͒;̵̨͛'̸̡̩̰͛̈͝.̵̩̅̄̆;̵̣͑̂'̶̧́̀ͅ.̶͙̳̙̋,̷̜͒;̵̨͛'̸̡̩̰͛̈͝.̷͙̈̃̆,̵͓̀̑;̷͕̭̤̈́̂̅'̶̹̩̆̀̅.̵͉̝̮̒͋͋.̶͉̫̊̃͌ͅ,̸͓͆̾̆,̶̹̲̓.̸̛̝͔͉͐̐,̸̥͙̕ ;̶̡͖̙͐̆'̶͓̣̑̐;̶̫̋̓'̶͉̲̈̾.̴̫͐,̶̻͐̈'̴̟̰͋̑.̵̯͓̀.̴̩̓̆͝,̶̥̭͇̽̄̈́;̵̯̂̒̃.̵͚̞̾͊;̶̡̙̓̔͝ͅ'̷̹̂,̷̜͒

;̵̨͛'̸̡̩̰͛̈͝.̷͙̈̃̆,̵͓̀̑,̶̹̲̓.̸̛̝͔͉͐̐,̸̥͙̕ ;̶̡͖̙͐̆'̶͓̣̑̐;̶̫̋̓'̶͉̲̈̾.̴̫͐,̶̻͐̈'̴̟̰͋̑.̵̯͓̀.̴̩̓̆͝,̶̥̭͇̽̄̈́;̵̯̂̒̃.̵͚̞̾͊;̶̡̙̓̔͝ͅ'̷̹̂,̷̜͒ ,̶͔́́.̵̩̅̄̆;̵̣͑̂'̶̧́̀ͅ.̶͙̳̙̋,̷̜͒;̵̨͛'̸̡̩̰͛̈͝.̷͙̈̃̆,̵͓̀̑;̷͕̭̤̈́̂̅'̶̹̩̆̀̅.̵͉̝̮̒͋͋.̶͉̫̊̃͌ͅ,̸͓͆̾̆,̶̹̲̓.̸̛̝͔͉͐̐,̸̥͙̕;̶͓͎̒̄̈́'̵̹͉̑͜;̷̧̗̫̉̈.̷̠͕̃͆̒,̶̗̗͛͜'̵̱̄̑̑'̷̪̊̾;̶̭̼͛̇͠.̷̰̥̱̽̀̒'̸͈͘,̷̱̈́̅'̸̝̫̈́͋.̷̢̍ “

I couldn’t make out the lyrics, but that was okay. The sounds of the song rumbled through me. Like tiny little vibrations everywhere. They conveyed things that words couldn’t. Feelings. Memories.

The song took me to places I’d never been.

I sank deeper into the melody, and the cold began to fade. It was warm, now. And birds were chirping. I heard the rustling of fields and the distant roar of the sea. I could smell the berries planted in the distance; the food being cooked inside a kitchen. I heard laughter, the smiles. The clinking of glasses and the warmth of a fire.

Friendship. Camaraderie. Family. Stories of people I’d never met, but knew like the closest of friends.

I sank into the warmth and listened. Learned.

I learned how things could be said without words.

Aside from my visits to the tree, my life was monotonous. Clockwork.

The winters came and the summers passed. I sang to the tree, and it sang to me. I grew. Taller, stronger. Becoming more like my father and mother both. My hair grew out, strangely turning a pale white at the tips. The patches of gray stone on my skin hardened like father’s, turning jagged on my elbows and cheeks. Father told me it looked cool.

I like to think the girls in the town thought so too.

I didn’t have time for them, however. No, no. I was too busy. There were other, more important things to do. Like helping my parents and listening to trees sing. I helped my parents work in the day, and I wrote songs late into the night.

Slowly, time and effort honed my skill.

I learned how to brew potions and identify poison from cure. I learned how to shape metal with a hammer and how to grind blades until they could pass through leather like air. And just as my mother opened the door to alchemy, my father trained me to be a smith.

Yet, I saw myself in neither discipline. It was fun, yes, but it wasn’t cool. Not like my friend. Not like his songs. At the end of the day, it wasn’t the table or the forge that I turned to, but the Singing Tree.

The hollow full of songs. It taught me. Encouraged me. And I learned.

On my thirteenth birthday, I asked for a wind instrument.

A bansuri.

It was midnight, and the town was silent.

I sat on my house’s rooftop, overlooking the other houses further down the slope. Our village was built on a curling spire of rock—a rib of greystone hooked into the earth. Far in the distance, the jungles below gleamed in the moonlight. Alive, even in the night. Perhaps even more so than in the day.

I eyed the sunbirds flying over the trees, dropping motes of light into the waiting ground.

Pretty.

I slowly brought the bansuri to my lips, closed my fingers over the tone holes, and blew.

Too hard. The sound came out piercing, sharp. It hurt my ears and it hurt my heart. Wincing, I tried again. Then again.

My playing was clumsy, that much was clear. The notes called to me, but I didn’t know how to answer them. My fingers waddled over the tone holes, firm but unsure, sputtering out tunes that were halting and strained.

Difficult. Music was hard. Harder than I thought. I’d spend the entire week practicing, trying to figure out how to play the instrument, but it never paid off. I wasn’t good right off the bat. I wasn’t talented like I thought I would be, and I felt the frustration build in my chest as the ugly sounds dribbled out from my instrument. My grip on the bansuri tightened, then loosened. My eyes stung, even though I hated that they did.

The sentiment somehow made my heart hurt even more.

Discouraged for the thousandth time that day, my playing slowed. The notes turned weak. Fading, fleeing, and eventually stopping.

Until a light perched atop the corner of my rooftop.

I stopped completely as I met its eyes. A bird of ethereal light no bigger than my fist sat over the roof tiles, looking over to me with its head tilted in curiosity. It hopped forward. Pecked at the tiles.

Clack. I stared. Then clack, once more. I stared at it in confusion until I noticed the gaze it directed towards the thing in my hands.

My bansuri.

I swallowed. Uncertain, I brought the bansuri to my lips and the pecking stopped. The sunbird stared at me, watching.

Waiting.

My trembling fingers closed over the holes and… I played. Clumsily, haltingly, still.

But still, I played. Because someone was watching.

Because I had someone to impress.

I let my instrument sing until the moons sank under the horizon. It played until the stars faded, and until the sun rose over the treetops and dyed the world with light. I groaned in frustration at every failure. And my resolve solidified whenever the sunbird pecked at the tiles and urged me to continue. And I felt happiness, when I played a note the way I wanted to. The sunbird stayed with me throughout, watching. Occasionally chirping.

A friend.

And when the sun’s rays hit it, I watched the bird of blue light begin to fade—a light in the night, a ghost in the day.

I finished the song before it went, telling a story without words and making terrible music that was embarrassing, but an absolute joy to play. It was a novice’s stammering, true. It was weak and shaky and faltering.

But it was not afraid.

It was a musician’s work, through and through.

When the song ended and I opened my eyes again, I was alone. Silence remained, and I knew in my heart that the song I just played would not be my last. It would be the first of many, many more to come.

So I stood up, dusted my pants, climbed down from the roof.

And I told my parents what I was going to be.