The summer heat pressed against Mira’s skin as she wandered through the field behind her grandmother’s house. She was eight years old, restless, and bored of the countryside. City kids didn’t belong here among the endless grass and chirping crickets.

She found the old oak tree by accident, its massive branches spreading like an umbrella over a patch of cool shade. Mira plopped down against the trunk with a sigh, picking at the grass beside her. That’s when she heard footsteps.

A boy appeared, maybe her age, clutching a bamboo flute against his chest like it was the most precious thing in the world. His face was serious, almost scowling, his posture stiff and uncomfortable. Mira couldn’t help but smile at how uptight he looked.

“You can sit here if you want,” she offered, patting the ground beside her carelessly.

The boy hesitated. His eyes darted to the space, to her face, then back to the space. Reluctance painted every feature. But slowly—so slowly—he took one step. Then another. 

Thud… thud… His footsteps seemed loud in the quiet afternoon.

When he finally sat down, keeping a careful distance between them, Mira grinned. “I’m Mira. What’s your name?”

“Kai,” he mumbled, not meeting her eyes.

“That’s a cool flute. Can you play it?”

For the first time, his expression softened just a fraction. He brought the bamboo instrument to his lips and played a simple melody—sweet, gentle, like the breeze rustling through the oak leaves above them.

Mira listened, captivated. She’d never heard anything so beautiful.

That afternoon stretched into evening, and when they finally parted ways, Mira didn’t know it yet, but something had begun. A melody neither of them could forget.