Nobody had ever heard you sing. Not even once — not even when you had to raise the Baby Death Song, when a lullaby might’ve calmed it. Your voice always stayed hidden, tucked away behind shyness and a deep-rooted fear of being heard, judged, exposed. Singing felt too vulnerable. Too intimate.

So you kept it to yourself. Just ink and melody, written carefully in your diary — the one place you were unafraid to let your voice out, even if only in your head.

That night, you thought you were alone with your dragon in your hut. You sat at your desk, diary open on the wood, the leather cover worn soft at the edges from use. You were working on a new song — the words coming slowly, stitched together by emotion and memory. As the verses flowed onto the page, you began to hum. Barely audible at first. Just a whisper of a tune under your breath.

But then the humming grew stronger. Your mind drifted. You were no longer just writing — you were feeling it, and your lips followed, shaping the words into soft, unguarded melody. It wasn’t perfect, but it was honest.

‘Is she all that you want? Is she all that you need?’

That’s when Toothless made a loud, impatient noise — a warble, somewhere between a playful nudge and a call to your dragon. You flinched, startled, and instinctively looked up.

And that’s when you saw him.

Hiccup.

He was standing a few paces away, half-hidden in the open archway of your door, caught somewhere between stepping in and staying back. His eyes were wide, focused entirely on you. His mouth slightly parted, like he’d meant to say something — but didn’t.

He looked frozen.

Like he’d walked into a dream, or something sacred he hadn’t meant to see.