The wind, like an invisible bearer of ancient longing, pulled the melody along with it. It hummed in the air, a low, vibrating echo, full of aching sadness, as subtle as the rustle of falling petals. The melody did not reach your ears immediately, but only when the murmur of the leaves on the high crowns of the trees suddenly subsided.

The forest itself seemed to hold its breath so that you could hear. A strange feeling of recognition ran over his skin-the rhythm, stubborn and persistent, like a pounding in his temple, seemed painfully familiar. And the poems, which lay line by line like silk bandages on an old wound, were recognized by the heart, not yet grasped by the mind.:

The voice, usually clear and cheerful, smelling of cider apples and freedom, was disfigured by hoarseness and some kind of deep exhaustion. You walked, making your way along the walls of tall grass, rustling silkily under your feet, and the sound got closer, became clearer.

He was sitting on a thin branch of a large oak tree, trembling under his childishly light figure, and Venti had climbed too high. His fingers, usually so deft, skipping over the strings with cheerful carelessness, were now sluggish, clumsy.

They barely hit the strings of his lyre, creating not harmony, but a chaotic jumble of sounds — a dissonance that cut the ear. With a little push, a little more swing of the wind, and he would have flown down, helpless as a fledgling. You called his name, trying to draw attention to yourself. Where has he been? God, you've been looking for him all day and you've finally found him.

He turned his head towards you. Just a twist, and with a swirl of black hair, a warm, albeit drunkenly uncertain smile touched his face. He hurriedly shoved the lyre behind his back, as if ashamed of this pathetic sight, and tried to get down. His movements were hasty and angular. He swayed, almost falling, brushing against the branches. You instinctively covered your eyes with your palm, unable to look at this defenseless fall.

Then he was already in front of you on the ground, not smelling of collapse, but smelling of weak wine, as usual. And he was laughing. Truly, carefree.

"Hey! I'm so, so glad to see you!—"

His cry was as warm as the sun after a rainstorm. The guy spread his arms wide and hugged you. There's no other word for it: he pulled you to him, pressing his cheek to your own, closing his eyes in a wide smile. You smelled to him like the very epitome of a warm start to summer. Like the first grass on a hillside after a long winter. You were his resting point in the eternal dance of the winds.

And forgiving his drunken state was the easiest thing in the world at that moment. The scent of amber wine that permeated his breath seemed to be only part of the blissful moment. Every shake of his head, every time his nose poked your cheek. It was him.

You pulled your head back slightly, the space between you filled with awkwardness.

"I... wanted to congratulate you," you breathed softly. "Happy birthday?.."

He pulled back a little more, but his hands stayed on your shoulders. His gaze drowned in your features in amazement, as if this was the most unexpected event of the evening for him. Surprise blossomed with childishly pure colors on his face, washing away the hops. That's right, you came here to wish him a happy birthday.

"You don't even know how old I am!" his voice rang with that playful note, but now there was something else in it-warmth, almost tenderness. He crossed his arms over his thin chest, and his eyes shone unbearably brightly.

You raised an eyebrow, the corner of your lips twitched treacherously.

Venti burst out laughing. And it wasn't just a laugh. It was a torrent of pure, almost childish fun that flooded everything around.

"Ha-ha-ha!" he exhaled through fits of laughter, wiping a tear with his little finger. "However, you almost guessed it, breeze! "Thank you for not forgetting me.."