Lena lived at the edge of the Whispering Forest, in a house whose windowpanes creaked as if trying to play old songs. Lena was a child who heard more things than others: the tiny tapping of ants' feet on stone, the sigh of wooden twigs as the wind passed through them, and sometimes even the whispering of trees. One morning, however, the whispering ceased. The leaves hung silently, the birds blinked impatiently, as if they had forgotten where they put their songs.

— Where did your voice go? — asked Lena, and she stepped into the forest.

A strange silence spread from the middle of the Whispering Forest, so thick that even the buzzing of a bee got lost. There stood the Singing Well, an old stone-rimmed well, from which tinkling echoes usually responded to those who sang or told tales. That day, however, the well only coughed, and the water's surface rested flatly, without a ripple of sound.

Lena touched the rim of the well. The moss was cool, and for a moment a feeling seized her, as if she had reached into the pocket of an old coat. From the pocket, fluffs flew forward – tiny dandelion parachutes – and, settling on Lena's palm, arranged themselves into a map. The map consisted of softly shining stripes, and three signs on it showed the way: a popping, flower-shaped pop, a small bell, and a long, ribboned wind-wave.

— Oh, what a beautiful figure! — said someone from nearby.

From among the ferns, a hedgehog stepped forward. His steel-blue button eyes sparkled happily. On his back sat a tiny backpack; at his side, a spear made of a needle; and on his head, an acorn-cup helmet.

— I am Pretzel, the forest's conductor. If the Singing Well coughs, the honey doesn't move in the pot. I'll help you — he stated, and proudly smoothed his curling mustache-bristles.

— Three sounds are needed for the well to sound again — whispered the map on her palm, as if echoing Lena's very thought.

— Pop, ring, whoosh — listed Pretzel. — On Featherheart Mountain lives the feather-hearted dragon; he can pop. At Linden Hill Waterfalls, the underwater bell rings. On Breeze Plateau, the griffin's wing whooshes. Up for the road!

The path leading to Featherheart Mountain wound in blueberry-scented mist. The stones rubbed warmly under Lena's soles, and at every step, roots, looking like tiny blue strings, popped up and then pulled back. The cave where the dragon lived was not signaled by smoke or flame, but by flakes of snow-white, spotted, striped, and gold-edged feathers. Nests covered the walls, like soft cloud-pockets.

— I am Spark — rumbled the dragon with a deep, yet warm voice. He was so big that when he sat down, a rock gladly gave him a knee. In his chest, something strange throbbed, as if not a heart beat within it, but a feathered pinwheel.

Lena explained why they had come. Spark nodded appreciatively, and in his gaze, such light dawned as when a bread crust crunches.

— You want a pop? — he grumbled. — That comes only if I sneeze. But lately it doesn't work at all. I was allergic to the pepper flower, but I had cleaned my driveway in the spring.

— The wind likes the dust of the pepper flower too — chuckled Pretzel, and already dug a tiny bottle out from his backpack. — We'll catch the sound with this. We just need to find a pepper flower.

They didn't even have to go far. Next to the cave, a spotted-leaved plant called a pepper flower swayed in a pot. Lena carefully stroked it, gold dust flew up from among its leaves, making Spark's nose slightly red.

— Hhh... hh... — the sneeze prepared itself.

— Now! — shouted Pretzel, and Lena held the bottle in front of the dragon's nose.

— ACHOO! — thundered the cave. Feathers caught in a swirl, the stones knocked tastily, and the bottle filled with an invisible pop, without cracking. It was as if tiny bubbles danced inside, but only a flutter of light betrayed their presence.

— I send this to the well — smiled Spark, and even gifted Lena a soft, rainbow end-feather. — If you stroke it, you will be brave even where the path is narrow.

At Linden Hill Waterfalls, the water trickled in silver ribbons, like a thousand tinkling strings. In the pool, little fish glittered as if they were moving commas in a book. On the bank, a chair woven from purple seaweed rocked. In it sat a water fairy, her hair green and long, like moss.

— I am Cascade — she nodded. — I cannot just give the ringing of the bell to anyone. What can you teach the water that is new?

Lena was silent. The pebbles gave tiny sounds when they moved, the waterfall had its own hurried rhythm, and the reeds nodded. She took three pebbles in her hand: a dull one, a tinkling one, and a hollow one. She knelt on the bank, and started drumming: thud-thud, tinkle, hollow pop, thud-thud, tinkle, hollow pop.

The river was surprised at first, then cheered up. The waves began to slap against the stones to the new rhythm, and from the depths of the waterfall, something chuckled. Ting-ling-ling — sounded the underwater bell, and every ring drew tiny circles on the surface.

— Beautiful lesson — nodded Cascade. — The water likes attention. Take this!

She slid a transparent pearl into Lena's palm. Inside, a shining ringing brightly bubbled. The pearl was so light, as if the sound itself were holding it in the air.

Towards Breeze Plateau, the hills leaned over each other like soft strudel dough. Up where the grass didn't grow higher than a span, a griffin stood on his paws, angrily prying at his mustache.

— Pepper is my name — he grunted, his eyes sparkling yet friendly. — My beard has gotten tangled in the wind-grass. If you free me, my wings will gladly whoosh for you.

Pretzel pulled out his needle-spear and a tiny comb. Lena stroked the griffin's whiskers with Spark's feather so he wouldn't be jumpy. Meanwhile, Pretzel, maneuvering in careful dance steps, untied the strands. When the last loop came undone, Pepper straightened up, opened his soot-flake colored wings wide, and the plateau sighed heavily beneath him.

— Shall we hop up? — asked Pretzel, and pulled out a breeze-bag, which he had sewn from spider thread. — We catch the whoosh with this!

Flying was lighter than a laugh. The hills bowed below, the tree twigs waved, and the air caressed Lena's face like warm milk on the corner of one's mouth. Pepper described big circles, and once, he even twirled, which made Pretzel temporarily bite his own tongue.

— Now! — shouted Lena, when the whooshing of the wings became like a huge curtain, revealing how the wind walks.

Pretzel opened the breeze-bag, and it filled with the whoosh. It rustled, but didn't tear, and on the spider-thread embroidery, the sound settled in tiny bumps.

Arriving back at the Singing Well, the light was already warmer, and the silence seemed so tired, as if it, too, wanted to lie down. Lena placed the bottle with the pop on the rim of the well, then the pearl with the ringing, and finally, the breeze-bag with the whoosh. Pretzel coughed ceremoniously.

— Pop first — he said.

Lena carefully opened the bottle. The pop, like a cheerful bubble, popped out and jumped into the well's water. The surface stilled for a moment, then tiny waves spread outwards.

— Now the ringing — nodded Pretzel.

The pearl splashed into the well, and ting-ling-ling ran along the stones, reflecting off the carved patterns.

— And the whoosh — whispered Lena, and untied the mouth of the bag.

The whoosh glided softly into the well, as if a long green silk ribbon were sliding down. The water moved, the stone rim started buzzing gently. The well, however, still didn't sound as it had in the old days.

The moss trembled softly, and Lena heard a tiny sound, perhaps from the dust of the well's stones, hum this: — One sound is still missing. Yours.

Lena took a deep breath. She didn't sing a song, nor did she recite a poem. She started telling a story. She told what it was like when the tiny tapping of an ant's feet was heard on the stone slabs. She told what color the light was when dough stood before the furnace, waiting to become golden brown. She told how the Whispering Forest whispered when no one paid attention, and how clever the hedgehog was who made a comb from a needle.

As she spoke, the heart of the well awoke. The water chuckled, then began a song that resembled nothing else, yet was familiar. The stones rang, the leaves of the trees started whispering again, and the bees danced such a dance that the flowers leaned in, waving and smiling.

— Its voice arrived — smiled Pretzel, and adjusted his acorn-cup helmet, as if tipping a hat.

From that day on, the tinkling of the Singing Well also carried a bit of Lena. If someone told stories by the well, the water sometimes chuckled, as if saying: — I hear. I am here.

Spark sometimes sent a big, warm breeze from the top of the mountain; from which the breads baked more nicely in the village. Pepper circled above the village, and if he had a really cheerful day, he stirred up a dust cloud with his whooshing, from which tiny, glittering dots settled on the windowsills. Cascade sent splashing greetings, and the rhythm of Linden Hill Waterfalls was a bit different every day, so no one would grow bored of it.

Pretzel opened a rustling-post in the middle of the Whispering Forest. He wrote the news on pinned leaves, which then traveled by themselves among the bushes. And Lena, if she passed by the Singing Well, always put her palm on the stone. Not to command the sounds, but to remember that sometimes, paying attention is magic too. And the forest rustled its leaves shyly at such times, as if answering: — We pay attention to you too.