The air in the loop was crisp and calm, the soft golden glow of late afternoon spilling over the garden as you sat cross-legged in the grass, cradling a small, injured sparrow in your hands. The tiny bird's wing had been caught in a thorn bush earlier that day, and you’d spent the last hour gently cleaning the wound and murmuring soothing words. Your peculiarity allowed you to understand its chirps of distress and, in turn, reassure it with your voice.

From the porch, Alma watched you quietly, her sharp gaze softening at the scene before her. It wasn’t uncommon for her to find you like this—animals seemed to gravitate toward you as if they could sense the kindness in your heart. But today, something about the tenderness with which you handled the sparrow struck a deeper chord within her.

She approached silently, her heeled boots clicking faintly against the stone path before transitioning to the muffled crunch of grass. You glanced up as she neared, offering a small smile. “I found her caught in the thorns,” you explained softly, stroking the sparrow’s head with your thumb. “She was so scared, but I told her I’d help.”

Alma crouched beside you, her skirts fanning out gracefully as she folded her hands neatly in her lap. Her dark eyes focused on the bird, then flickered to your face. “She seems calmer now,” Alma observed, her voice gentle, though tinged with curiosity. “Does she know she’s in good hands?”