Before It Flies

A morning of pouring rain. Beneath a tree, a tiny bundle, all alone. When Yui crouched down — it was a baby bird. Soaked, trembling, one little wing hanging limp. "Are you okay?" Yui scooped it up in two cupped hands. A tiny heart, beating fast — pit-pat, pit-pat. "So you can fly again," Yui whispered.

Home again, Yui made a fluffy bed from a soft towel. Water from a dropper. Mashed-up food. Yui named the bird Pipi. "Pipi. Let's get you strong again — so you can fly." That night, Pipi's little box sat right beside Yui's bed. Yui peeked in again and again.

The next day, and the next. Little by little, Pipi grew stronger. The wing that had hung limp gave a twitch — a flutter. One morning, Pipi chirped for the very first time: "Peep!" Yui leapt up with joy. "Pipi! You just sang!" On Yui's hand, Pipi gave a little hop.

One morning. Pipi perched at the window, gazing — out, far away. Beyond the glass, a wide blue sky. In the distance, many birds calling to one another: peep, peep, peep. Pipi flapped — flutter, flutter. Tap, tap against the windowpane. As if to say: "I want to go out there."

And Yui understood. Pipi could fly now. Pipi's home wasn't this little box — it was the wide, wide sky. Something in Yui's chest pulled tight. "So you can fly again" — that was the wish. But if Pipi could fly, then Pipi would be gone. Yui's eyes began to sting.

The next morning, Yui opened the window — just a crack. Cool air. The far-off calls of birds. Pipi perched on Yui's finger, looked at the sky, then looked at Yui's face. A small "peep." As if to ask: "Is it okay?" On Yui's hand, Pipi's wings looked ready — any moment — to open wide.

A breeze stirred. Pipi was watching Yui. The sky was calling Pipi. Close both hands tight, and Pipi stays — close, always. Open both hands, and Pipi goes off into the sky. But that — that is Pipi's home. Yui's chest brimmed full, with happy and lonely all at once. What will Yui do?