Nightwind
Copyright© 2025 by Heel
Chapter 3: The Whisperer’s Way
The bruises on Calista’s shoulder had turned a deep violet by morning. Her pride hurt worse. She spent the next two days keeping her distance, tending to chores and letting the stallion watch her.
If he wanted to fight, she decided, she’d give him silence instead.
Each dawn she brought water and fresh hay, saying nothing. She never looked him in the eye for long, never reached for him, never demanded anything. She sat nearby on the fence rail with her coffee, reading aloud from an old book of poetry in a calm, unhurried tone. The words drifted over the corral like wind over grass.
At first, Nightwind ignored her completely. Then he began to listen.
He watched her from the far end of the pen, head high, nostrils twitching. When she turned the page, his ears flicked forward. When she spoke, his breathing slowed.
On the third day, she began to hum. Just a low tune — the kind her mother used to sing on long train rides east of the Mississippi. Something about it seemed to settle him. The black stallion lowered his head, muscles loosening.
Calista smiled faintly. “You see, boy? Not all voices are meant to break you.”
By the fifth day, she dared to step closer. Not with rope or bridle — just her voice, soft as dusk. She knelt in the dust a few feet from him and set down a piece of apple.
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