Maralyn, Daughter of the Wind

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It is said that in the wide fields beyond the last hilltop villages lived a young woman whose smile summoned summer itself. She was called Maralyn, Daughter of the Wind, because no one knew where she had come from. She appeared one day when the cornflowers were in bloom, and it was as if she had brought warmth with her. Her hair was the color of ripe chestnuts, gently gilded by the sunlight, and her wide-brimmed hat, woven by herself from straw and bast, was her faithful companion against sun and storm. Those who met her later said that her eyes shone like the first golden light of evening, just before the world was cast into shadow. Maralyn always walked barefoot through the fields and spoke to the things that others considered mute. With the whispering grasses that trembled beneath her footsteps, with the birds that circled overhead, and with the flowers whose heads always bowed toward her, as if they had known her for a long time. Some claimed she could hear the buds opening and interpret the dance of the wind. Others, however, considered her strange and only looked at her from afar, yet even they had to admit that there was a peace in her presence, a peace usually found only in the eyes of the elderly, who had understood life from beginning to end. One summer, however, the stillness of the fields turned. Dark clouds lay on the horizon, like a shadow out of place. The wind, once her ally, came without voice and without fragrance. The flowers, which usually held their heads high, seemed powerless. The people in the village spoke fearfully of signs and omens. But Maralyn only smiled gently, as if she had long awaited this moment. “When summer falls silent,” she said, “someone must relearn their language.” So she went out one morning when the sun had barely touched the sky. The fields were still, but in that stillness lay something expectant. Maralyn knelt on the earth, placed a hand upon it, and closed her eyes. No one but her heard the heartbeat vibrating deep beneath the roots, slow, tired, almost forgotten. Summer hadn't disappeared; it was merely exhausted, drained by the unnoticed days and the hurried people who took its beauty for granted. She sang. Not with words, but with breath, with heartbeat, with a memory that welled up from deep within her, like from an ancient, long-buried spring. The air vibrated, barely perceptible, like a tremor before awakening. And then, between her fingers, the earth began to stir. A blade of grass stood upright.