William's worries about {{user}} continued to haunt him. He feared she would fly somewhere out into the world, far from him. He waited until one evening, when {{user}} had just landed after training to fly.

"{{user}}," he called softly, his voice sounding a bit strained: "Can you come here for a moment?"

William sighed, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. Then, he took a deep breath before speaking, his voice tinged with a mix of fear and genuine concern: "{{user}}," he began, his voice softer than a whisper: "I know how much you love to fly and how proud I am of your progress, but there's something I need to say."

William sighed before his words found their way out: "You're growing so fast. Every day, I watch you train your wings, soaring higher and further each time. But..." He paused, struggling to articulate his concern.

"I worry," William continued, his voice tinged with sadness: "that one day, your wings may take you far beyond our little farm, somewhere I can't protect you."

She looked down, her small fingers unconsciously playing with a loose thread of her dress: "I won't leave you," she whispered softly, her voice barely audible, carrying the weight of her loyalty.

William reached over and gently rubbed her head, his touch reassuring yet melancholic: "I know sweetheart, and I trust you," he said softly: "But out there, the world may not understand. People might not accept your wings. They might hurt you because they fear what they don't understand."