THE LANGUAGE THAT REMEMBERS DRAGONS For Kathleen Dixon

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A story about courage, light, and the friendship that gives wings Dear Kathleen, sometimes a story comes along just when we need it. I want to give you this one – as a reminder of how much strength, warmth, and quiet magic lives within you.
THE LANGUAGE THAT REMEMBERS DRAGONS
In a forgotten forest, where the morning light flowed like golden ink between the leaves, lived a sage named Aeloran. His robe was adorned with feathers, pearls, and golden threads, but it wasn't his clothing that made him extraordinary – it was his heart. For Aeloran was one of the few people who could still speak the ancient language, the language that didn't resonate with words, but with light, breath, and truth. One morning, when the forest was shrouded in soft mist, Aeloran heard a deep, vibrating sigh among the roots of the ancient trees. He followed the sound until he reached a clearing where a young dragon rested—emerald green, majestic, its scales glittering like rain on freshly opened leaves. But its eyes were full of unease. Cautiously, Aeloran raised his hands. From his fingers flowed gentle runes of blue light, swirling in a circle, like a constellation searching for its way home. “I know who you are,” Aeloran whispered. “A dragon of memory. One who carries the past in his heart, even when it shines with painful intensity.” The dragon raised its head, and its breath brushed warmly against Aeloran’s skin. He understood. Not the words—but the intention. For dragons hear with their souls. “You are afraid,” Aeloran whispered. “Not of the world—but of your own light.” A long silence. Only the rustling of the forest answered. Then the dragon bowed its neck, a sign of trust given to few. His wings trembled as if something he had long suppressed was now flowing within him. Aeloran approached and spoke in the ancient tongue: “You are not alone.” The runes shone brighter. The air vibrated with warmth. And slowly, like the sun after a long winter, the dragon began to gleam—not with fear, but with strength. A song arose, without voice, without melody, but it filled the forest with a beauty that caused the trees to lower their branches. The light glided across the ground like dancing reflections of water, and even the birds paused, as if listening to a secret older than time. The dragon raised his head and looked deep into Aeloran’s eyes. Grateful. Courageous. Awakened. “Go,” Aeloran said, smiling. “And don’t forget who you are: a miracle that flies.” With a mighty beat, the dragon unfolded his wings. The forest trembled with the power. The air sparkled. And then the creature rose into the sky, as if it had never hesitated, never doubted, never feared. Aeloran watched it until the dragon's green foliage faded into a point of light. He knew the dragon would return. For gratitude has wings. And somewhere among the branches of the forest, it is said, the wind still whispers the gift Aeloran had given it:
Courage.
Hope.
And the memory that even the greates