The Song of a Bird at Dawn

Day 1: The Window Is Empty

Long ago, the house had become quiet, although not in an abrupt or shocking fashion. Slowly, like ivy growing over stone, silence fell. Unnoticed at first, it clung to corners. Then, heavy as unsaid sadness, it spread over her heart, then over the mantle where the photos had been, then over the walls.

Mira was standing at the same window where she had been every morning for the past 27 years. She could still see the horizon where the slope dipped into the forest, but its glass was streaked with dust from the wind and old fingerprints. She also hoped for the same thing every morning: a song.

Not from memory or a radio, but from a bird she used to enjoy listening to. Perhaps a nightingale. or a robin. She had never been certain. Long ago, on the morning of her husband's funeral, it sang. A lone bird sung softly and high that morning as the world shifted and her sorrow crystallized like ice on leaves. She sensed that the universe was still aware of her at that very time.

But nothing since then.

She had aged and lived in silence. She did not talk until noon on several mornings. Others, not at all. The silence was only broken by the ticking clock and the whistling of the kettle.

Nevertheless, she listened while standing by that window each morning.

Day Two: The Guest

The doorbell rang. A tiny, unfamiliar sound, like library laughter.

Putting a shawl across her shoulders, Mira scowled and padded to the front door. She spotted a young man as she opened it. Seldom twenty, if at all. His eyes were ringed in red as though he had not slept for days, he wore hiking boots covered in mud, and he carried a canvas knapsack.

He scratched the back of his neck and apologized. "Is this the home of Thompson?"

"It was," Mira muttered. "A long time ago."

His gaze grew gloomy. I apologize for interrupting. I am searching for—well, it is irrelevant. I apologize.

She had the option to release him. She nearly did.

But for some reason, she said, "Who are you looking for?" Maybe it was the wind, maybe it was the silence she had been too accustomed to.

He remained on the doorstep and said, "My grandmother." "Esther Thompson." According to my dad, she lived here when he was a youngster. Last year, he passed away. I am attempting to... emulate him. I was curious to know what he observed.

Mira slightly widened the door. "If you want to, come in. The weather is chilly.

Eli was his name. His father's drawings, including pictures of a long-gone garden, a rotten tree swing, and a small bird with dark eyes and a proud chest, were in his journal, which he carried in his suitcase. The diary was fragile; the ink had become gray and the corners were fading.

He lingered for tea. She baked biscuits.

He glanced out the same window that Mira stood at each morning before he left. He inquired, "Do you hear them?"

"Hear what?"

"The birds." That seems like a robin to me.

She paid attention. Yes, there was a chirp—soft, hesitant. A few notes that are staccato. The breath caught in Mira's throat.

It was back.

Or maybe it had never gone.

Day Three: Wing Echoes

Mira had a dream about flying that night. Despite not being a bird, she possessed its weightlessness. Beneath her, trees flowed like verdant rivers. Despite being cold, the air was pure. She smiled when she woke up.

That morning, Eli came back with a birdwatching handbook and a pair of binoculars. He remarked, "I thought I might attempt spotting a few." Would it be okay if I sat beside the window?

It did not bother her. In the quiet of the sun, they sat together. He drank some coffee. She drank her typical lemon-infused black tea.

The bird came back outside. It was a robin, they said. Its music was a thread that woven through the early hours, adding something fresh to Mira's mornings, rather than a one-time melody.

The bird was given the name Clement.

Eli inquired.

Mira smirked and said, "Clement." "It sounds more respectable."

They saw two starlings, a titmouse, and a goldfinch by midday. On torn receipts, Mira started writing their names. She had not written anything but holiday cards and grocery lists in years.

Next time, Eli promised to bring a notebook.

She took her late husband's bird book—which he used to read aloud from on leisurely Sundays—off the shelf that afternoon. The sides were ripped. A page was still marked with a feather, which might have been left for her or forgotten.

Day Four: The Memories Song

The garden glistened in the gentle drizzle that accompanied the clouds that arrived in the morning. Despite the cold, Mira pulled on a heavier sweatshirt and slightly opened the window.

The gray was broken by the robin's chirping.

Breathless, Eli was late. "On the way up, I saw a kestrel," he remarked. "It was amazing, but I did not get a photo."

She had started to anticipate these visits. In some way, his youth made her feel needed rather than old. She told him about her husband, how he had saved a wounded dove and healed it, and how, even when he was ill, he planted daffodils every spring.

Eli paid close attention. Part of it was written down.

He declared, "I guess I will write about this." "This site is important, not simply the birds. You and him.

Unsure of how to react, Mira nodded.

"Is that acceptable?"

"Yes," she muttered. "It would," I said.

They saw a jay and a woodpecker as the day went on. The jay's cocky stride made Mira laugh aloud. It had been years since she had laughed so hard.

Eli placed a little note in her palm before he departed that night. "I discovered this in between my dad's journal pages."

A young woman who was recognizable as Mira was sketched standing at a window with her face turned toward the light. A bird, its wings marked with ink and memories, hovered above her.

As the robin sung once more, she cradled it to her chest.

Day 5: A Fresh Nest

Eli brought a list of the more than twenty species he had seen in a week by the fifth day. They both started writing the same name in their shared notebook: "Birds of Morning and Memory."

Tea, bread, and watching became their tradition. They argued about names, imitated cries, and wrote little notes on pages, such as "chubby fellow," "aerial acrobat," and "grumpy yet lovely."

Eager for the first light, Mira started to get up early. Others were now joining the robin, forming a chorus. Once more, morning turned into a ceremonial.

They talked about grief in addition to birds. of Mira's spouse and Eli's father. Of silence and remembrance. Of lost goods and songs found again.

“Do you ever think birds remember us?” Eli questioned one morning.

She hesitated. Perhaps not us specifically. However, they can still recall the locations. The emotions. The smell of rain in the air. Perhaps parts of our stories are contained in their tunes.

"I enjoy that."

In the ensuing silence, they sat.

The robin was singing.

Day 6: Takeoff

That morning, the beautiful gold sky with pink streaks broke out. It was the kind of daybreak that commanded wonder. Insinuating that sunrises were God's method of beginning anew, her husband used to take pictures of them.

Mira rolled up all the windows.

Birdsong filled the air. From a dozen people, not just Clement. They appeared to have assembled to serenade her, as if they were old friends.

Eli showed in with a canvas, his own picture of Clement sitting on the windowsill at dawn. The emotion was present despite the poor brushwork. When she saw it, she cried—not with sadness, but with relief.

He finally remarked, "I guess I am ready to go on." My dad wrote about other locations. I would like to see them. But I will return.

She took his hand and murmured, "You should." "You have to."

His bag was lighter with grief and heavy with memories when he departed before nightfall.

Mira listened until after dark that night while sitting by the window. She heard something else in the silence that now surrounded the birds.

Day Seven: The Window Is Still There

Still, the robin arrived.

each morning.

Mira continued to make tea, get up before the sun, and write in the now-half-full notebook. She had outgrown the need for companionship. It was now rich instead of empty. Packed with wind, feathers, and stories.

Weeks later, Eli's postcard arrived. "They sing here too," with a single line and an illustration of a warbler.

It went into the notebook, Mira said. She sketched her own robin next to it; it was smaller and less precise than his, but it was accurate.

She stopped waiting for something to happen. She just accepted it.

Mira grinned when she heard the bird singing before dawn.

There was no longer silence in the house.

With every chirp, flutter, and wing-like heartbeat, it breathed once more.