The Voice of the Wind

In a remote mountainous region, where the valleys slept beneath blankets of mist and the peaks scraped the belly of the sky, there lived a young boy named Yazdan. His village was small—only a handful of mud-brick homes scattered across the rocky terrain—but to Yazdan, it was a world full of secrets waiting to be discovered.

Every evening, when the sun dipped behind the jagged cliffs and the world turned the color of burnt gold, Yazdan climbed a hill just outside the village. There, he would sit cross-legged, close his eyes, and listen.

He wasn’t listening to the birds, or the rustle of trees, or the trickling of mountain streams.

He was listening to the wind.

To others, the wind was nothing more than a wild and restless force that roared through the passes. But to Yazdan, it sounded like a voice—soft at times, fierce at others—whispering words he could almost understand. It tugged at him, calling him like an old friend trying to remind him of something he had forgotten.

Sometimes, he imagined the wind saying:

“Come closer…”

“Listen…”

“There is something you must learn…”

But whenever Yazdan told the villagers about this mysterious voice, they only laughed or shook their heads.

“It’s just the mountains,” they said.

“Stones and cliffs echoing the air. Nothing more.”

But Yazdan knew what he felt. There was a message hidden in the wind—one meant for him.

The Calling Night

One night, when the moon hung full and heavy like a silver lantern in the sky, something changed. The wind was stronger than usual—sharper, louder, almost urgent. It whistled through the rocks in long, rising tones that made the skin on Yazdan’s arms prickle.

This time, he didn’t just hear the voice.

He felt it.

“Come… come…”

The words were clearer than they had ever been, as if the wind had found a tongue.

Yazdan’s heartbeat quickened. The wind wasn’t calling him to the hill this time. It was calling him higher, toward the towering mountain behind the village.

Without hesitation—without even stopping to think—he stood up, tightened the scarf around his neck, and followed the call. The night was cold enough to bite, and the path was steep, winding between boulders and thorny bushes. Yet the moon shone brightly overhead, lighting his way like a companion guiding him step by step.

As he climbed, the wind grew stronger. It did not push him back, nor did it threaten him—it seemed to encourage him, brushing past him lightly as if urging him forward.

By the time he reached the mountain’s upper ridge, his breath was coming fast, his legs trembling from the climb. But then he saw something that made him forget his exhaustion.

The Man on the Summit

At the very top of the mountain, sitting cross-legged on a flat stone, was an old man. His beard was long and white, his clothes weathered by years of harsh winds and sun. Yet his eyes—dark, calm, and deep—shone like they held the stories of centuries.

He wasn’t startled when Yazdan approached. In fact, he smiled, as if he had been expecting this moment.

“So,” the old man said, his voice warm like a fire. “You finally heard it clearly.”

Yazdan swallowed hard. “You… you were calling me?”

The man shook his head.

“No, boy. The wind was calling you. I merely help guide those who can hear it.”

Yazdan sat in front of him, confused yet fascinated.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“A messenger,” the man replied simply. “I sit here every evening and send the wind across these mountains. Hidden in its sound are the answers people seek—but only the brave hear them.”

Yazdan couldn’t help but ask, “Why me?”

The old man studied him with gentle eyes.

“Because you listen. Because your heart is not noisy like the hearts of others. The wind speaks to all, but most people are too busy to notice.”

Then, slowly, the old man reached into the pocket of his worn cloak and brought out a small stone. It was no ordinary stone—it glowed with a faint blue light, soft but alive, like a heartbeat.

He placed it gently in Yazdan’s palm.

“This,” the man said, “is a token of courage. Not a magic stone, not a secret charm—just a reminder. A reminder that you were brave enough to follow the voice others ignored.”

Yazdan stared at the glowing stone, warmth spreading through his fingers.

“When you are uncertain,” the old man continued, “sit quietly, breathe, and listen. The wind will answer you—not with words, but with clarity.”

Before Yazdan could ask more questions, the wind rose again, swirling around them in a slow, spiraling dance. Its sound was soothing, almost musical, and in that moment Yazdan felt as though the mountain itself was embracing him.

When he blinked, the old man was no longer there.

The summit was empty.

Only the wind remained.

Return of the Listener

Yazdan descended the mountain with the glowing stone pressed firmly in his hand. The village was just waking when he arrived—smoke rising from chimneys, roosters crowing, the first rays of dawn painting the mud-brick walls golden.

But something about him had changed.

The villagers sensed it immediately. They noticed the calm in his eyes, the sureness in his steps. Not long after, people began coming to him with questions—small ones at first, then larger ones.

“My son is sick. What should we do?”

“Should we plant our crops early this year?”

“There is a dispute among us—what is the fair decision?”

Yazdan never claimed to have all the answers.

He simply listened—to the people, to the mountains, and to the wind.

And somehow, he always knew what to say.

To the villagers, it seemed like wisdom beyond his years. But Yazdan knew the truth:

The wind still spoke to him.

And he still listened.

For he had learned that answers do not always come from outside.

Sometimes, the world whispers them softly.

Sometimes, the wind carries them.

And sometimes, the courage to hear them is the only magic one needs.