The Wooden Bird

The child’s hands, still small and uncalloused, held up the small wooden bird.

It was not a masterwork. One wing was slightly higher than the other, the tail a little too thick.

The wood was soft, a pale, unfinished pine, and the knife-marks were still visible along its back, a testament to the child’s earnest, clumsy efforts.

The masters of the circle—Elian, Nyra, and the others—did not see the flaws.

They saw the story of its making: the hours of quiet concentration, the small, determined frown on the child’s face, the whisper of the blade against the grain.

They saw the wood’s own story, a knot near the tail left in place, a small, dark whorl that the child had not tried to carve away, but had worked into the design.

It was not a thing to be admired, but a thing to be heard.

Nyra, her own hands resting in her lap, nodded slowly.

“It sings of a new beginning,” she said, her voice soft.

And in the quiet of the Hall of Stillness, the circle of masters listened to the humble, honest song of the first work.