The night lay like a heavy blanket over the forest. The trees stood motionless in the windless air, and the moon cast its silver light on the canopy. It was a world of shadows and whispers, where most creatures rested, and only the nocturnal dwellers claimed their space. In the middle of this darkness flew an owl with broad wings gliding silently through the air. His name was Orion.
Orion was no ordinary bird. His eyes could see what human eyes could not perceive, but it was his ears that made him a master of the night. He could hear what others could not: the tiniest movements, the faint rustle of leaves, the squeak of mice beneath the moss. For Orion, the night was not silent but a symphony of vibrations and frequencies, a language that told him where he needed to be.
The Language of the Night
High in the sky, Orion paused for a moment. His wings hardly moved as he turned his head to listen. The night spoke to him. A soft rustling of leaves, a faint echo of a twig snapping on the ground