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In rooftop town Whistlebay, the wind falls silent. A boy named Ori, a retired rooftop gardener, a brass bee, and a silver bell brave the old service bridge to the Aeolian Tower. Through listening and song, they soothe a sleepy mechanism and bring gentle breezes home for bedtime.
The wind in Whistlebay knew every roof by name. It rang the little chimes that hung from laundry poles, curled the edges of prayer flags, and nosed the steam off kettles so that the whole town smelled faintly of mint and warm bread. Ori loved it best when the wind tugged his sleeves while he crossed the flat roofs to school, as if it wanted to race him to the next chimney. He was small and quick, with a sea-blue scarf his mother had knitted too long, so its tail snapped behind him like a friendly fish.
That morning, the tiles were dry and warm under his bare feet, the sky a gentle blue, and the chimes pealed in a hundred different notes. “Don’t leap the gap by the baker’s,” called his mother, Yara, from the stairwell. Her hair was tied up with a ribbon the color of ripe peaches. “They’re repairing the gutter. Go around the pigeon coop.”
“I’ll go slow,” Ori promised, though his slow was anyone else’s quick. He balanced along the low parapet and paused, as he always did, by Mrs. Kettle’s garden. The old woman’s rooftop was a maze of planter boxes, tomato cages, and strings of beads that winked in the sun. Bees nosed at lavender. A clay teapot sat on a brick over a tiny flame, rattling its lid.
“Morning, boy,” Mrs. Kettle called without looking up. She wore men’s boots and a red skirt, and her shoulders were strong from lifting watering cans. “The wind’s in a merry mood. Listen to it. It’s telling tall stories today.”
Ori leaned close to the wind chimes by her ladder. They were made from seashells, silver keys, and thin slices of blue glass. The tune changed with every little gust, a laugh here, a sigh there. “What’s it saying?” he asked.
“Something about gulls arguing over a lost hat,” she said, chuckling. “Now off with you. And mind your steps. The wind is a friend but it can be naughty.”
He ran on, slapping the wall twice for luck, passing the laundry lines where shirts ballooned like white jellyfish. From up here he could see the harbor, where boats bobbed and their pennants fluttered. Farther out, on its own rocky islet beyond the last warehouses, stood the tall Aeolian Tower. It was older than anyone he knew. Its broad vanes turned slow and steady, milking the breeze and breathing it back smooth as a cat’s purr, so the whole town could have fresh air even on still days.
Ori stopped in the middle of a roof and spread his arms, letting the wind fill his scarf. “Race you to school,” he whispered, and the wind shoved him gently in the right direction.