Legend

Luna Aiana’s Nightingale Feathers were grey, soft, and so light that a single breath would scatter them across the table like dry leaves.

On the first warm night of spring, Luna knocked at a cottage by the water. A single candle burned inside. A sick man lay on the bed, and beside him sat his wife, pale from weeks of sleepless nights.

“Every night is longer than the last,” she said. “I can’t bear another.”

Luna poured a handful of feathers into her palm and opened the window onto the dark.

“Listen until dawn.”

From the thicket by the water a nightingale began to sing. It sang long and without pause, though no one could see it and no one answered. The woman held the feathers in her closed hand and stopped counting the hours. Towards morning she noticed that her husband was breathing more easily.

“The nightingale doesn’t wait for day to begin its song,” said Luna at first light. “Nor does hope need light. It only needs someone to listen.”

The Nightingale Feathers stayed in Luna Aiana’s cottage, scattered along the sill on the lake side. She took a handful of them for anyone who kept watch through the night.