The poor boy ran after him before anyone else moved.

The rich boy reached the old bench and dropped to his knees, trying to pull something loose from underneath before the blind girl could get there.

“Stop,” the poor boy shouted.

But this time, the whole festival heard him.

Parents turned. Children stopped flying kites. The blind girl stood frozen in the grass, holding her cane and the rescued kite string like it was the only thing keeping her standing.

The poor boy grabbed the rich boy’s wrist just as he pulled out a small wooden box taped under the bench.

The box had her name carved into the lid.

The blind girl’s fingers began to shake.

“Is it mine?”

The poor boy brought it to her carefully.

Inside was a folded note with raised letters her fingers could feel.

She touched the first line and broke.

“My brave little bird…”

Her father’s words.

Her mother covered her mouth in the crowd, already crying.

The note said he had hidden it there before leaving for treatment, because he knew there might come a day when she missed his voice more than anything.

Under the note was a tiny wind-up music bird.

The poor boy turned the key.

A soft melody began to play.

The blind girl pressed the box to her chest and whispered, “He didn’t forget me.”

The rich boy looked down at the scissors in his hand, suddenly smaller than everyone he had tried to hurt.

And under the bright festival sky, the kite flew again—this time held by two children who refused to let it go.