The Beekeeper knelt by the nearest hive, her palms warm against the sun-warmed wood. She closed her eyes, letting her voice flow into a gentle lullaby, words lilting and old as the hills. Bees circled her head, their wings a shimmering haze in the first light. She finished her song and waited, listening for the hush that always followed.
"Sleep, sweet gatherers, under sky’s soft seam, bring me honey, bring me dream,"
The Beekeeper sets the cup on the windowsill, her reflection blurred by the honey’s glow. She hums as she works, trading each lullaby for a measure of sweetness. Every day she sings; every day, the bees deliver their golden gift. There is comfort in this ritual, a gentle bartering of song for sustenance.
The Beekeeper pauses at her doorway, her heart quickening with a note of unease. From the hives, a low, layered humming rises—different from the bees’ usual song. It twines in unfamiliar patterns, syllables tumbling through the dusk like pebbles in a stream. She steps closer, hands trembling.
"Who sings there?"
The air shivers with a dialect the beekeeper’s grandmother once whispered in her sleep, full of moss and river stones. The hives hum in harmony, weaving lost names and half-remembered stories into the night. The beekeeper falls to her knees, tears glinting in the moonlight as the hives answer her lullabies with their own. Sweet and strange, the melodies wrap around her.
"Why do you remember, when I have forgotten?"
The bees teach her the lullabies she once traded away, syllable by syllable, until her tongue remembers their shape. Honey flows thicker than ever, tasting of wild thyme and old sorrow. She sings with the hives now—trader no more, but chorus, keeper of memory and song.
No longer alone, the Beekeeper sings with the hives, their voices joined in a language that binds earth and sky. Each morning, their chorus carries through the valley, a testament to the old bargains and the new songs that grow from them. Honey and lullaby, woven together, sweeten the dawn for all who listen.
