Welcome,
My dear friend.
Tonight,
Drift into a legend that begins on a quiet hill beneath the stars,
Where a silver,
Magical harp lies hidden in the moss,
And a boy named Eli brings ancient constellations back to life with the touch of a single string.
My name is Jacob Evans,
And it's a tender joy to be here with you tonight.
As the night deepens,
Rest here beside Eli,
Beneath a sky that listens.
Let your breath slow,
Like the quiet hum of the harp beneath his hands.
You have done enough for today.
Truly,
It is enough.
Close your eyes now,
And let the constellations keep watch as you drift away into this magical tale.
There was a hill just beyond the edge of the village,
Sloping gently like the curve of a dream.
Eli came here each evening,
A blanket under one arm,
A notebook under the other.
He liked how the world softened the higher he climbed,
How the trees quieted and the sky opened wide above him,
Always watching.
The stars knew him.
Their glow carried something ancient,
Like memory wrapped in light.
Eli felt it in his chest,
A quiet recognition like being remembered by the sky.
That night,
Twilight spread across the hillside like ink in water.
A breeze stirred the tall grass,
Brushing his skin like a hush that felt like an invitation.
Something gentle tugged at his heart,
Guiding his steps beyond the usual clearing.
And there,
Resting in a cradle of moss and moonlight,
Was a harp.
It hadn't been there the night before.
Eli knew this hill like the lines of his own hand.
He had walked this slope,
Sat in this silence,
Felt the shape of its stillness.
But the harp shimmered with a presence that felt both ancient and newly awakened.
Like it had always been here,
Only hidden until now.
Perhaps the stars had veiled it.
Or perhaps it waited for the right soul to see.
Its frame arched like a crescent moon,
Soft and silver with the faint shimmer of stardust along the grain.
Strings stretched across it in threads of light,
Each one glowing with its own quiet hum,
As though tuned to the breath of the heavens.
Eli knelt beside it,
Hands steady.
When his fingers touched the highest string,
The air changed.
Above him,
A star blinked into being.
Then another.
They spun into shape.
Two wings,
A tail,
The curve of a long body.
A dragon stitched from light,
Coiling across the sky.
The air was full of stillness.
But within it,
Something stirred.
A whisper that felt older than time.
Long ago,
In the deserts of Persia,
There lived a dragon named Smerg.
Keeper of hidden wisdom and the winds of change.
The voice drifted like a story rising from the strings themselves,
Carried into the sky.
Eli didn't move.
He only watched,
Heart wide open beneath the constellation now glowing above him.
The dragon shimmered in silence,
A pattern etched into the stars.
Around him,
The wind curled softly,
Filled with stories he hadn't yet heard.
The harp in his lap was more than an instrument.
It was a keeper of memory.
A doorway to legend.
Eli remained in the grass,
The sky alive above him.
The air had deepened into night,
But time felt suspended,
Unfolding gently around him.
Like the petals of a bloom that only opened in silence.
He didn't feel tired.
The stars were awake,
And so was he.
And though he hadn't yet plucked another string,
The harp hummed faintly against his palms,
Waiting,
Inviting him to listen again.
He played softly.
Just a touch,
Barely pressure at all.
But the harp answered,
As though it had been waiting for his fingers to return.
A glowing tone rose into the night,
Smooth as breath.
Then another,
And another.
The melody formed without thought.
As if the music was remembering itself through him.
The sky stirred.
Stars shifted gently,
Gathering into a new shape.
Delicate and slow.
A deer appeared,
Antlers like branches reaching across the night.
And a single star glowing at the center of its brow.
Warmth stirred the wind.
And from it came a voice.
Carried on starlight.
In the forests of the north,
Under snow-laden boughs,
Lived a white stag called Anwen.
She carried the first light of winter in her heart.
And wherever she walked,
The trees remembered spring.
Eli closed his eyes and saw it.
Mist curling around hooves.
Moonlight slipping through bare trees.
The hush of snow giving way to green.
He could feel the memory like it belonged to him.
As though he had once walked behind her.
Following her tracks through the frozen quiet.
The vision faded and the constellation above held still,
Bright,
Watching.
He breathed in wonder and played again.
This time,
The stars curved into the shape of a lion.
Broad and golden.
Mane aglow with tiny suns.
Rahel,
The guardian of truth.
Who walked the deserts and turned lice to wind.
Then came the shape of a sea turtle.
Swimming slow and vast across the sky.
Kaya of the deep,
Whose shell held maps to lost oceans.
And the dreams of forgotten sailors.
Each melody carried a memory.
Each story rose from the strings like a spirit called home.
Eli sat in the starlit grass.
Barefoot and steady.
Playing the sky open one song at a time.
He hadn't moved from that hill since the sun disappeared behind the trees.
And still,
He felt no sleep in his body.
Only reverence.
The air had changed.
The constellations above knew.
No longer drifted.
They hovered with purpose,
As though gathering for something more.
And the harp,
Still cradled in his lap,
Vibrated faintly with anticipation.
As if it,
Too,
Knew the night was not yet finished.
The wind had gone still.
Eli sat with the harp resting in his lap.
The stars above him shimmering in slow constellations.
Their stories told and glowing.
But the harp pulsed gently beneath his hands.
Alive with something new.
He took a breath and played.
The notes rose.
Hesitant and clear.
A single star blinked into view.
Then another.
They didn't fall into a shape he knew.
No ancient beast.
No whispered tale.
Instead,
A spiral of light began to form.
A soft curve.
The hint of wings.
Neither bird nor dragon.
A form still finding itself.
Rising into the night as if drawn by Eli's breath.
He felt it stir inside him first.
The shape was unfamiliar.
But the feeling was not.
It came not from memory.
But from somebody.
Deeper.
The harp trembled.
And Eli understood.
It wasn't just telling stories.
It was listening.
The stars were waiting for him to play the rest.
So he touched the strings again.
And the sky continued to unfold.
Eli closed his eyes.
The hill held him like a cradle.
The harp warmed against his chest.
His fingers moved gently,
Guided by something steady and ancient.
The melody rose and fell like breath.
The older constellations leaned back,
Making space.
The harp pulsed softly.
And Eli knew.
This wasn't a memory.
It was something being born through him.
He didn't try to name it.
He only listened.
One final note lifted from the strings,
Glowing as it rose.
The constellation held.
The night breathed.
Eli lay back in the grass.
Eyes turned to the stars.
Some glowed with ancient stories.
One shimmered with something newly alive.
The shape hovered above him like a promise.
Unwritten.
Luminous.
And quietly alive.
He let his eyes close.
And in the hush of the hill,
With moss beneath him and starlight above,
He drifted into sleep.
