The Painter and the Little Bird

Every morning at seven, old Mr. Phuc set up his easel by the open window of his small house. From there, he could see the alley, the banyan tree, and the patch of sky that changed colors with every passing hour. For forty years, he had painted that same view.

His neighbors joked that he must have painted it a thousand times. He would smile and say, “The sky is never the same twice. Why should I be?”

One day, as he was mixing his paints, he noticed a little girl watching from the gate. She had messy hair, a school uniform two sizes too big, and eyes full of curiosity.

“Can I watch you paint?” she asked.

He nodded. “Of course. Come in, but mind the brushes they’re older than you.”

She giggled and stood quietly beside him as he worked. For a while, the only sounds were the soft scrape of the brush and the chirping of birds outside. “What are you painting?” she finally asked.

“Today,” he said, “I’m painting the wind.”

She frowned. “But the wind is invisible.”

“That’s the fun part,” he said with a wink.

From that day on, she came every afternoon after school. Sometimes she brought flowers, sometimes a drawing of her own, sometimes just questions. He taught her how to mix colors, how to hold a brush like a promise. She taught him to laugh again.

When the rainy season came, Mr. Phuc fell ill. The window stayed closed, and his easel gathered dust. One morning, the little girl knocked and knocked, but there was no answer. She left a note on the doorstep that said:
*“Please get better. The wind is waiting.”*

Weeks passed before he finally returned to his window. The first thing he saw was her note, now faded and crumpled but still there. He smiled, weak but grateful. That day, he picked up his brush again and painted not the sky, not the tree, but a small girl standing in the wind with a note in her hand.

A few days later, she came running up the steps. “You’re painting again!” she shouted with delight.

He nodded. “And you helped me remember why.”

Years later, when the house stood empty and vines crept up the walls, the painting of the little girl still hung by the window. The colors had softened with time, but her smile remained bright, eternal in the captured breeze.

Sometimes, the neighbors said they could still hear faint laughter coming from the old house at sunset like a child telling an old man, “Look, the wind’s dancing again.”