"The Shepherd and the Whispering Wind"

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Long ago, in the shadow of the Darnen Hills, where wildflowers kissed the stones and the rivers sang to the moon, there lived a poor shepherd named Elric. He had little more than a cloak patched with time and a flock of thirty sheep, but his heart was rich with songs and stories passed down from his grandmother.

Each night, as the stars gathered like old friends above the hills, Elric would sit by the fire and play his wooden flute. The music would rise with the smoke and wander into the sky. The villagers said the wind paused to listen when Elric played.

One winter, cruel and sharp as broken glass, swept through the hills. Snow fell day after day, covering the ground in silence. The sheep grew thin, and Elric’s food ran low. Still, he played his flute every night, his breath forming ghosts in the air.

One evening, as he played a lullaby older than memory, a strange thing happened. The wind answered. It curled around him like a living thing and whispered in a voice like rustling leaves: “Elric, shepherd of the quiet hills, why do you play when your belly is empty and your hands are cold?”

Elric stopped playing, but only for a moment. “Because music is warmth to my spirit,” he replied. “And it keeps hope awake.”

The wind circled him, thoughtful. “Few speak kindly to the wind. Fewer still give it gifts. I shall grant you a favor, shepherd.”

A hush fell over the hills, and then the wind whispered again: “Beneath the old oak on the southern slope lies a stone with three marks. Lift it, and you shall find what you need.”

At dawn, Elric led his sheep toward the southern slope. The snow crunched beneath his boots. He reached the old oak, bare and proud against the sky. Just as the wind had said, there lay a flat stone with three deep cuts across it. He heaved it aside, revealing a hollow space beneath.

Inside was a sack of silver coins, enough to feed a hundred men through winter.

Elric stared, stunned. He fell to his knees and thanked the wind. He took only half the silver and replaced the stone. With the rest, he bought hay and oats for his flock, bread and firewood for the old, and warm cloaks for the orphaned children in the village.

The wind came again that night, pleased. “You could have taken it all,” it whispered.

Elric smiled. “But what would I do with more than I need, while others have none?”

The wind laughed—a high, singing sound. “You are wise beyond your winters, Elric. So I give you one more gift.”

It rose into the air and vanished toward the stars.

The next morning, Elric found his sheep strong and fat, though they had eaten little. Wherever he walked, the land softened and green shoots pushed through the snow. His flute's notes could mend broken hearts and calm storms. Some said his music even made flowers bloom in winter.

Years passed. Elric grew old, his beard white as frost. But he never hoarded wealth, never turned away the hungry, and never stopped playing his flute.

On his final evening, he climbed the hill where he first heard the wind’s voice. He played one last tune, soft and slow, full of all the stories he'd lived. When the last note faded, the wind came and gently lifted him. His body vanished, but the music lingered.

To this day, the people of Darnen Hills say that when the wind whistles through the trees at night, it carries Elric’s song. And if you listen closely, you might hear the words:

“Hope is a song. Share it, and it grows.”