fly high

 

The Feather in Her Hair

In a quiet village nestled between hills and streams, there lived a girl named Anaya. She was known for the single white feather she always wore in her hair—a soft plume tucked behind her ear, fluttering gently with every step she took. No one knew where the feather came from, only that it had never left her side since childhood.

Anaya wasn’t like the others. While most children climbed trees and splashed in the river, Anaya sat beneath the old banyan tree sketching clouds, writing songs, or daydreaming of a world beyond the hills. People called her odd, and over time, those whispers turned into walls that caged her spirit.

"She’ll never amount to much," said the potter.

"She’s too quiet, too soft," whispered the schoolmaster.

Even Anaya began to believe them.

But she remembered something her mother had told her long ago:

“That feather in your hair, it’s not just decoration—it’s a reminder. A feather is meant to fly with freedom, not fear.”

At the time, she hadn’t understood. But now, at eighteen, standing at the edge of the village road, suitcase in one hand and a trembling heart in the other, those words echoed in her soul.

She was leaving.

Not because she hated the village, but because her dreams no longer fit inside its borders. She wanted to study art in the city, to learn, to create, and to finally understand what it meant to live without shrinking.

As she walked past the fields and familiar faces, some smiled, others stared. But for once, Anaya didn’t lower her eyes. The feather in her hair danced in the breeze, not heavy with doubt but light with purpose.

The journey was rough. The city was a storm of noise, competition, and cold eyes. There were days she questioned her decision. She missed the banyan tree. She missed silence. But whenever fear crept in, she touched the feather. And slowly, her art found voice. Her sketches of skies and stories of small things began to catch attention. People started to listen. To feel.

Years later, Anaya stood in a bright, bustling gallery in the heart of the city. Her paintings hung like windows into her soul. And in the center of the room, on a small pedestal, lay a glass case. Inside it—a single white feather.

A note beside it read:

“A feather is meant to fly with freedom, not fear. This is where my journey began.”

— Anaya

And just like that, the girl who once feared she was too quiet, too soft, had taught the world that softness was not weakness. It was flight. It was freedom.