The Owl and The Nightingale

They say I keep the old counting-rings in trunks, the slow adding of seasons-but I keep other things too: the measure of hush, the currency of a single clear note at dusk. I have watched voices come and go like weather; I have seen careful hands lay paths where none were needed and watched small wonders turned into trade.

These pages are shadows of moments I have held: a bent twig, a lantern shadow on moss, the way a bird will sometimes stop mid‑song and consider whether the air is listening...