Oliver had never been good at making friends. He was quiet and lived in his head and didn't quite know what to say in the spaces where words were supposed to go.
One summer evening, walking home through the forest, he heard music.
Not humming. Not birdsong. Actual, complicated, beautiful music.
He followed the sound to a moonlit clearing and stopped. His mouth fell open.
A family of beavers was tapping rhythms on a hollow log. Three frogs were croaking in perfect harmony. A cricket played a tiny violin — or something very much like one. And a nightingale, at the centre of it all, sang the melody in a voice like liquid silver.
Oliver held his breath.
Then he sneezed.
Every animal froze.
Oliver expected them to scatter. Instead, the nightingale cocked her head.
"Do you play?" she asked.
"I — I have a recorder," Oliver said quietly. "I'm not very good."
"Nobody starts very good," said the nightingale. "Sit down."
Oliver sat. He took out his recorder. He played his small, slightly squeaky part — and the animals played around him, weaving his simple tune into something grand.
When the song ended, the forest was perfectly still.
"Same time tomorrow?" asked the nightingale.
Oliver nodded. He couldn't speak. There were no words for what he felt.
But that was alright.
Some things don't need words. Some things — the best things — only need music.