Anya and the Blue Bird

The wind whistled through the leaves as Anya stumbled into the forest, its emerald embrace swallowing the potential rage that choked her. Tears, the colour of a bruised sky after a storm, traced angry paths down her dirt-streaked cheeks. She sank beneath the boughs of an ancient oak, its gnarled fingers reaching out as if in sympathy.

A soft chirp startled her. A tiny bluebird landed on a nearby branch, cocking its head. Anya poured out her woes, a torrent of words painted with the greys of disappointment and the blacks of despair. The bird listened, its gaze unwavering.

Then, it sang. A melody that shimmered with the brilliance of a rainbow, a kaleidoscope of colours that swirled and danced. She speaks in colours, Anya realised, understanding washing over her. The blues were for empathy, the greens for resilience, the golds for forgiveness.

The bird fluttered closer, its tiny body radiating warmth. In its eyes, Anya saw not pity, but a fierce love, a love that burned bright with natural innocence. It sang again, this time a melody that resonated deep within her being. It was a song of second chances, of starting anew and yes even hope.

Anya rose, the weight lifting from her chest. The forest floor, dappled with sunlight, seemed to pulse with life. With a newfound determination, she turned towards the rising sun, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek, this time the colour of a rose blooming after a storm. Kiss me like we die tonight, she whispered to the world, a promise to live, a promise to love, a promise to paint her own tomorrow in vibrant hues.