A dark shape moved between trunks. Then another. He slowed his breath. Another rustle. A twig breaking. He played the last line of the melody. Then a deer stepped out. A doe, calm, alert, unafraid. The flute player froze, flute halfway to his lips. The doe blinked as if deciding something. Another deer appeared beside her. Then a third, smaller, ears too large for its head. The flute player brought the flute back up. If he was going to be visited by deer, he wasn’t going to waste the moment by standing like a lawn ornament. He played again, soft phrases, like what you might do comforting children.

The deer listened. They didn’t flee. They stood there, breath faintly visible in the air. He played something slower, something that felt like a bridge between creatures who didn’t share a language. When he finished, he lowered the flute and bowed slightly. The deer blinked, turned, slipped back into the forest. He was left with the exhilaration of performing for an audience that didn’t applaud but somehow appreciated him more honestly than anyone ever had.