It was evening, and the old man sat alone on his rooftop, lost in memories. He thought of friends who had departed before him, wars he had fought in, and the woman he had loved. He closed his eyes and listened to the wind gently brushing against the house, and it seemed to him as though it carried a faint melody. He relaxed and allowed himself to be carried away by the barely audible tune.
The song of the wind, unheard yet resonant in many hearts, the dream that drives us forward, urging us to set out for new shores and seek the path to a lost paradise.
After years of loneliness, he suddenly felt happy again. This bittersweet yet somehow otherworldly melody invited him to entrust himself to the wind and let it carry him on its wings through the worlds of dreams and fantasy. To those distant places the wind sang about in his heart.
As the old man turned his gaze away from the sky, he suddenly realized how vast the world was and how little of it he had seen. He regretted spending so much of his life on trivialities and disputes, mourned for the people who remained blind to the wonders waiting for them in the world and who instead indulged in pointless quarrels.
That night was filled with wonderful dreams and impressions that would occupy the old man for a long time. When the song of the wind had faded, he could no longer sleep. He kept moving restlessly between the rooftop and the mat he usually slept on, yearning to hear the unfamiliar melody one more time, to succumb to the spell of its fragrance. But the wind that carries such dreams only roams at night or in very special moments.
The next morning, he left his house, walking through the familiar streets much more attentively and openly than before. He felt a tinge of sadness, as the wind had left a yearning in his heart that no fruit, no bread, and no wine could satiate. Yet he was also happy, for he had caught a glimpse of a part of the world full of marvels, concealed from most.
Life carried on, despite his newfound revelations. No matter! Let the others settle for their quarrels and trivialities, let them offer sacrifices to their deaf and mute gods in the temples. He had, for the first time in his life, experienced true divinity. A magic full of love that needed no dark threats from priests to work – it lived and breathed in his heart and flooded his soul.
He knew he could share this secret with no one. People would laugh at him as an old, silly man, and if the priests heard about it? They tolerated no competition, no matter how harmless. They would punish him, even though he had lived for over eight hundred and fifty moons. But none of that mattered. He was under the spell of a real magic, and people could see he carried something special within; there was something about him that accompanied him wherever he went.
They smiled at him and were glad that, after all the years he had spent alone, he was once again among them, talking and greeting old acquaintances. He was welcome once more, after many years of oblivion. Yet his longing had become something else…
As evening came, the old man climbed onto his rooftop again, waiting for the night wind to return to him, to sing to him once more of faraway places and envelop him in enchanting fragrances. He sat quietly, watching the stars, following the longing in his heart, wishing for his newfound friend to appear.
After sitting silently and introspectively for a while, he finally heard the soft whisper of the night wind, his friend. And again, the wind told of distant places, unimaginable and forgotten cities, and the people who lived and loved there – fates whose grandeur seemed both strange and foreign to him. The wind sang of unborn dreams waiting in the darkness to bring joy to the children of the sun…
The old man smiled – he was more content than ever before.
For two moons, the old man climbed to his rooftop every evening to greet his friend, who showed him such wonders and made him feel young and strong again. A rejuvenation free from the need to conquer or compete with anyone.
During the day, he told the children stories of his experiences, and they adored him for it. He became the great storyteller whose tales were so dreamy that even a scholar came to write them down. Not everyone understood the meaning of his words, but that didn’t matter. Their hearts listened, and they understood.
A heart is like a flower – nurture it, and it will bloom, granting its bearer a radiance that rivals the sun and can light up others as well.
Eventually, the old man grew weaker, venturing out less often. But the people loved him and visited him regularly to check on him. They brought him food, gifts, and wine; even one of the priests – wrapped in cloaks to remain unseen – brought him incense. But the old man’s greatest joy came from the children, who begged him to tell more stories of the night wind. He was happier than ever, though he knew his time was nearing its end.
One evening, he asked the night wind to take him along on its travels. He was old and wanted to see the wonders his nightly friend had been telling him of all these years. The night wind, a lonely spirit longing for companionship, found it difficult to resist his friend’s insistent pleas. It too abided by rules, though. The old man was told to share one more story – one much like this – a story to rid people of their fears and open their eyes to the wonders of the world.
The old man agreed and, fortified by the night wind’s gift of energy and a promise of eternal remembrance, recounted the tale of the night wind the very next day. The audience was larger than ever before, with people traveling from faraway places to listen. It was a remarkable day for all present.
He spoke of mysteries and marvelous places, of the source of life and the universal love still residing in our souls. He described the sanctuary of dreams, the wellspring of hope and longing, and explained that every encounter in life has a purpose – though its good might only become apparent much later. And he spoke of so much more. His audience listened intently, each of them moved to tears by the end.
That evening, as the night wind arrived, Jackals howled their mournful songs into the night, causing the city’s residents to lock their doors and forgo venturing out. Joyful, the two friends reunited – one grateful for the diminished fear he now inspired, and the other basking in his friend’s fulfillment of a promise. The night wind carried the old man on its wings, taking him on a journey through a world full of wonder. Together, they flew over deserts and seas, across cities, peeking into windows, witnessing strangers’ lives unfold: joys, fears, laughter, and tears, birth and death. It was the night wind’s world.
In his travels, the old man saw strange creatures, beasts, and people. Though their appearances differed, as he began seeing through the night wind’s eyes, their differences faded. Nearly everyone – whether man or woman, child or warrior, beast or human – shared the same desire to love and be loved, to give their affection a rightful place in their lives.
Their journey finally brought him to a glowing city, stretching from horizon to horizon. It felt neither intimidating nor foreign but somehow familiar. The old man saw familiar faces – his son, who had left years ago in search of fortune, was here. Old friends, believed lost to the gods, were here too.
And there, he saw her. His beloved wife, for whom he had shed countless tears over the years, believing he would never see her again. She was youthful and beautiful, just as he had remembered her in his heart. The old man pleaded with the night wind to let him stay in this place, among his friends, his son, and his beloved wife.
He knew that one day he would see his other friends again, for he understood now who his friend was and that he brought the night – and the wondrous gift of sleep – to every living being.