Hesperios watched the stars. He’d been told all his life that they spoke to his people. He had never heard their voice. The clouds too were said to speak. To him they were silent. He turned his gaze to the waves below the cliff he stood perched on. His sisters told him that these had words of their own. As with the stars and clouds, the sea was silent to him.

“Why am I magically deaf?” he asked no one in particular. “Why can’t I hear what others can?” He settled himself on the soft grass and sighed. There was no one to answer his questions. The elders in the herd had never met someone who could not “hear.”

Then, as he looked down at the grass, he startled. The grass beneath him was whispering. With a soft chuckle, Hesperios stood. He was not deaf. He was simply listening to the wrong thing. The grass… the trees… all the plants everywhere had been speaking to him the whole time. He turned and trotted off toward the herd. He had to tell them what the grass had to say.

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