The village was small — the kind of place where nothing ever happens.

A few wooden houses stood scattered between the edge of the sea and the mouth of the forest.

Nobody remembered when the village was built.

Nobody ever asked.

It was the kind of place where time forgot to move forward.

But there was one girl —

The villagers always saw her walking alone.

Barefoot on the cold earth.

A small notebook tucked under her arm.

Her black hair tied in loose braids.

They called her "The Quiet One."

Some said she could hear things no one else could.

Some said the forest whispered secrets only to her.

But no one ever asked her name.

Every morning, she stood by the sea...

watching the waves.

Listening.

As if waiting for someone to call her back.

That morning was different.

The wind was softer.

The sea was quieter.

A single white feather floated down from the sky —

landing gently at her feet.

The girl picked it up and pressed it between the pages of her notebook.

In that book, there were no stories —

only letters.

Letters she had written...

but never sent.

"To the Wind,

If you're listening...

please don't forget me."

Somewhere deep inside the forest,

a voice —

soft as a breath —

whispered back:

"I never did."