“Tell me, Sariel, how are fairy tales born?”

 

They sat on a rock, still warm from the heat of the day, on top of the cliff, and watched the day fade away.

The sea had already swallowed the molten, weary sun beyond the horizon and turned bluish-grey, darkening by the minute.

The shadows were gone, but it was still light — the sky hadn’t accepted the end of the day and kept its soft blue.

The horizon began to glow yellow, sliding into pink, then filling with fiery red gold.

The colours deepened. And there — the first star appeared.

 

“Tell me, Sariel, how are fairy tales born?”

 

The giant angel looked at the young creature beside him — just beginning to notice the first tiny freckles on tender skin.

She gazed up at him, waiting eagerly for an answer.

He touched her smooth hair.

 

“When it’s hard to say.”

 

“Hard to say? Does that happen?”

 

“You, humans, would know better.

Angels don’t speak much — we mostly listen to thoughts.

Words sometimes fly past, like swift birds,

but thoughts… thoughts hum inside for a long time.

And we hear them, as they shift and try to take shape.”

 

“I feel that sometimes.”

 

“I know.”

 

“And sometimes I’m afraid to say something — in case I hurt someone.”

 

They fell silent, watching the city by the sea glow like embers under the cold moon and the sparks of stars on the black velvet night.

 

“Yes, it’s scary. I understand.”

 

He plucked a feather from his wing.

 

“Here. When it’s hard to say — take a piece of paper and try to write.”

 

They looked at each other. She gasped in surprise.

 

“To write?! With a feather?!!”

 

“Oh yes, I forgot — people don’t do that anymore.

But you know, the most famous fairy tales were written with feathers just like this… only goose feathers.”

 

“Goose feathers? Honk-honk-honk?…”

 

They laughed.

 

“Yes.”

 

“But this one is different.

You don’t need to dip it into ink or paint.

The words will fall onto the white field of the paper by themselves.”

 

He looked at her attentively, as if into her very soul.

 

“Write what you couldn’t say, looking someone in the eyes.”

 

She lowered her gaze, suddenly sad.

 

“Believe me, the words are already there.

Keeping them inside makes no sense.

They must be spoken — or poured out on paper.

And the feather will help.

And you know, every word born from the heart becomes a fairy tale.”

 

She nodded.

 

“I know whom I want to write to. I’ll give it to them later.

But what if they don’t accept it?”

 

“You need to release the words — you do.

Whether they accept them or not is their choice.”

 

Sariel took a notebook from his pocket and handed it to her.

The world grew still. The sky had long merged with the sea.

She took the notebook firmly and wrote the first word: “Forgive me.”

 

Suddenly the sky above the two of them, sitting on the warm rock, grew brighter.

In that gentle glow she wrote.

She wrote that she had hesitated for a long time, that what had happened was wrong and unfair.

 

“You may be hurt or even angry with me,

but you deserve to know the truth…”

 

She finished, carefully tore out the page and folded it into an envelope.

 

“Take me there. It’s late.”

 

They got on a huge bike. The engine roared — and they rushed downhill, on the wings of the oncoming wind, along the night serpentine road toward the flickering fires of the seaside town.

Brakes screeched at the doorway. She ran up quickly and slipped the envelope under the door.

Then — gas again. Wind in her face.

Home at last.

 

“I’m proud of your courage,” he said softly at parting.

 

“Thank you for being there, Sariel.

You really didn’t say much — but it was exactly what I needed.”

 

Night. A cozy bed. Silence.

A sweet sleep — and a new fairy tale, until morning.