There are many kinds of music in the world. There is the music of rain tapping against windows. The low hum of bees beneath summer flowers. The whistle of a kettle just before breakfast. The creak of old trees leaning into the wind.

And then there is Bleat....

"MAAAAAAAAAA!"

A flock of butterflies abandoned a nearby bush. Melio slowly lowered his lute. Bleat looked up at him expectantly.

"That was..." he began.

The little goat's tail wagged.

Melio considered his words carefully.

"...enthusiastic."

Bleat beamed. Melio sighed.

"Again, from the beginning."

Bleat took a tremendous breath.

"Perhaps with slightly less volume."

It was too late.

"MAAAAAAAAAA!"

This time, somewhere in the distance, another goat answered.

Bleat gasped. Her eyes widened. Melio knew that expression.

"No."

Bleat inhaled.

"No duets."

Melio was a Bard. And a very good one. He could coax laughter from a room that had forgotten how. He could make dancers of tired feet and convince the shyest wallflower that perhaps one song would not hurt.

When Melio played, his music became magic. Golden stars sprang from cheerful chords. Blue notes floated through the air like butterflies. Green melodies curled themselves into vines.

Once, during a particularly complicated improvisation, Melio accidentally created a glowing fish. The fish swam three circles around his head and disappeared into a teapot.

Melio had never been able to repeat the trick. This bothered him considerably. Bleat believed the fish had shown excellent judgment.

Melio traveled throughout the Bellflower Downs with his lute upon his back and Bleat trotting beside him. The Downs were made for music.

Great bell-shaped flowers covered the rolling hills, their enormous purple blossoms chiming whenever the wind moved through them. Streams murmured between grassy banks. Crickets performed every evening without being asked.

And beneath an enormous purple flowering tree, Melio often played until the sky turned pink and the first stars appeared.

Bleat always accompanied him. Whether Melio wanted accompaniment was irrelevant. Bleat loved music. Unfortunately, music had not returned the affection.

Still, wherever Melio performed, crowds gathered.

He knew hundreds of songs. Ballads about ancient heroes. Silly songs about tavern keepers. Love songs. Marching songs. Songs about food.

Even one extremely questionable song involving a turnip and the mayor of a village Melio was politely encouraged never to visit again.

Melio could play them all. Perfectly. That was important to him. Every note belonged exactly where it should. Every chord arrived precisely when expected.

Melio practiced until his paws ached because somewhere along the way, he had learned something about being admired.

Admiration was wonderful. But it was fragile. Play beautifully and people smiled. If you miss a note, someone noticed. Forget a verse and someone whispered.

Play something they did not like...

Well.

Melio preferred songs he already knew people loved. So, he collected them. He learned them. He perfected them.

And wherever he went, everyone said the same thing.

"Melio, play the one about the moon!"

"Melio, play the dancing song!"

So, he did.

"Melio, play the one with the turnip!"

Melio glanced around nervously...

"Absolutely not."

There was only one song Melio never played. His own. He had been writing it for years. The melody had first come to him beneath the great purple tree.

It was quiet at first. Only four notes. He wrote another. Then another.

He carried the melody across the Bellflower Downs, adding pieces whenever they found him. The sound of rain became part of it.

So did summer crickets. A little of the wind. A little of the river. A little of every road he had traveled. Even Bleat had somehow found her way into it. Melio was still deciding whether that had been intentional.

The song had no great hero. No famous battles. No clever joke. It was simply...

Melio.

And that was precisely the problem.

One evening, beneath the purple tree, Bleat found him playing it. Melio thought she was asleep. His paws moved gently across the strings. The melody drifted upward.

A pale blue ribbon of magic appeared. Then gold. Then violet. Tiny stars gathered among the branches. Flowers turned toward him. 

Even the bellflowers stopped chiming.

For once, the Downs seemed to be listening.

Melio closed his eyes. And played.

He played the roads he remembered. He played lonely evenings beneath unfamiliar stars. He played laughter around tables. He played mornings when the world seemed so beautiful he could hardly bear that he would only ever see it once.

And somewhere inside the melody was the quiet hope that perhaps leaving a song behind meant some small piece of a life could continue singing after the musician had gone.

The final note faded. Melio opened his eyes.

Bleat was sitting directly in front of him. Tears streamed down her furry little cheeks.

Melio froze. "Bleat?"

She sniffed. Then threw back her head. "MAAAAAAAAAA!"

Melio nearly dropped the lute. "Good heavens."

Bleat bounded in a circle.

"You liked it?"

"MAA!"

Melio smiled.

"Well. You have famously questionable musical judgment."

Bleat headbutted his knee.

"But thank you."

The following morning, Melio received an invitation. The Festival of First Stars was coming to the Bellflower Downs.

Musicians traveled from every corner of the realm to perform beneath hundreds of lanterns while the hills filled with listeners.

Melio had played there many times. He knew exactly what they expected.

The moon song. The dancing song. Probably the turnip. But at the bottom of the invitation was a single handwritten line.

This year, every Bard is asked to perform something of their own.

Melio stared at it.

Bleat ate a flower.

"No."

Bleat chewed.

"I simply won't go."

Bleat swallowed.

"There are other festivals."

Bleat stared.

"Perfectly respectable festivals."

Stare.

"Stop doing that."

Melio folded the invitation.

"I said no."

Bleat stared harder.

On the evening of the festival, Melio indeed, reluctantly, attended. He told himself this was because Bleat had somehow dragged his performance cloak halfway across the meadow. It had nothing whatsoever to do with courage. 

The Bellflower Downs glowed. Lanterns floated above the hills. Purple blossoms chimed beneath the evening breeze. Hundreds gathered upon blankets and beneath trees.

One Bard played a song about the sea. Another sang about her grandmother.

A young musician performed something so strange that Melio could not determine whether it was a song at all.

The audience applauded anyway.

Then came Melio's turn. He walked onto the little wooden stage. Bleat trotted behind him. The crowd cheered.

He looked down at Bleat. She was waiting. Melio looked at the audience. Suddenly his own song seemed foolish.

Too quiet. Too personal. Perhaps unfinished. Perhaps ordinary.

Perhaps everyone would hear it and discover that beneath the beautiful cloak and clever songs and sparkling magic, Melio was not nearly as extraordinary as they imagined.

His paw trembled.

He stepped backward.

"I..."

The crowd waited. Melio swallowed....