The early morning still holds the chill of the night, but light is already spilling softly between the branches. The air feels clean and untouched, as if the world has just been reset. On an old, weathered branch sits a small sentinel of spring.
He tilts his head, catching the first warm ray, as if tasting it. Just a moment more — and the silence will break. His voice will cut through the morning air like the first crack in the ice.
This is not just a song.
It is a signal.
A beginning.
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