On a warm spring afternoon, the Story fell from the sky.
It was a short story, at first—no more than a few sentences, randomly thrown together in a much disorganized way, lazily soaring on the wind, above the red and grey roofs of the small town. Stories always started with few words, and always went unnoticed.
When the first Sentence took shape, born from the glee of a child quietly playing on the pavement near the bakery, the Story started to move a little more quickly.
The Professor sat in his chair on the veranda, sifting through pages of a thesis he wanted to read over the week-end. Sometimes, he would nod to himself in satisfaction, noticing how well his student had developed her theme, how exact her phrasing and the theories she was raising. There still would be work to do, of course, yet he could sense it already-she would pass, without the shadow of a doubt. She would pass, and in a few years, her research would shine among her peers, casting a new light on the whole world of literature.
For a split second, he froze, pausing at the reading of one particular sentence, squinting slightly as the words were suddenly taking on a slight blur. When he looked up again, frowning, he wondered why he was staring at a pile of white pages, and how long he would still have to wait for the thesis to be delivered.
The Story was picking its pace.
In her garden, shielding her eyes from the blazing sun with the back of her hand, Letitia smiled with satisfaction upon looking at the carefully-tended roses. Pale and yellow, soft and fragile, they were her pride, her achievement, the passion that had been keeping her busy every day, every week, for the past twenty years. She had won prizes, even, becoming quickly known for owning the most beautiful garden in town. People from the newspaper had come to photograph it and ask her her secrets; she had smiled shyly, simply telling the truth-that love and care were everything.
When the Story passed her by, the roses suddenly seemed to lose their charm, their color and perfume withering, and Letitia wondered why she had wasted so much time with flowers already.
Amanda knew that this time, she was at last feeling the music that would make her famous. Sitting in front of the piano, her fingers delicately striking the keys, she slowly unveiled the symphony, little bits by little bits, pausing here and there to write down the notes on the partition. Soon, people would ask her to play in public again. In the end, perhaps someone from the city would notice her creative talent and open her the doors to a lifetime career.
When the Story passed her by, tip-toeing on the window-sill, Amanda suddenly wondered why she was there, at her mother’s piano. It wasn’t like she had ever learnt how to play it.
Mark and Susan were kissing in the shade of the old oak, oblivious to the leaves softly whispering above their heads as they were lying in the grass on the hill. It had been three months, three interminable months during which he had had to stay abroad for work, and now that the both of them could see each other again, they had every intention to catch up on all these lost days. Love, so strong and young, the love that had marked each of their letters, the love that had kept their hopes high. They could see so much love in their future, and plans for a house and family were already slowly forming in their minds.
When the story passed them by, kisses started to taste like ashes, with the raising certainty that they weren’t meant to be, and they both wondered why the afternoon felt so cold all of a sudden.
The Story went away, finally complete, on fluttering wings chiseled with memories, thoughts and emotions.
The next morning, a Song fell from the sky.