The wind children burst from the birches with laughter that shook every twig, their silver hair streaming like loose banners across the sky.
Zephyr, the youngest, caught the first yellow leaf before it touched the ground and held it to his ear to hear its story of summer rain.
Mistral, the swiftest, raced ahead to the wide river, where she spun the water into silver spirals that glittered in the low sun.
Bora climbed the tallest pine and shook the cones until they rattled like tiny drums, announcing the children’s arrival to the forest below.
Sirocco, eldest and gentlest, lingered behind to comfort an oak whose acorns were falling too early after a sudden frost.
Together they crossed the meadow where crickets still sang, though the grass was already stiff with the first silver threads of dew.
They met a flock of swallows preparing to leave and asked why the birds were gathering so early beneath the fading maple leaves.
The swallows answered that the wind itself had grown restless, carrying a colder breath that warned of snow before the moon turned full.
Zephyr felt a quick ache in his chest, for he loved the meadow’s warmth and could not imagine the grass asleep beneath white silence.
Mistral declared they must travel farther north to ask the great northern wind why the season was changing so quickly this year.
The four children rose on a single gust and sailed above the hills, the fields below turning from green to gold as they climbed.
At dusk they reached the old stone bridge where the river narrowed and the air smelled of wet moss and fallen walnuts.
There they found a tired heron standing on one leg, feathers ruffled, who told them the northern wind had not blown for many days.
Without the northern wind the cold could not arrive properly, and every leaf was confused, unsure whether to stay or to fall.
The children thanked the heron and continued, their feet skimming the water so lightly that not a single ripple followed them.
By midnight they reached the edge of the northern forest, where the pines stood black against a sky crowded with steady stars.
A low moan drifted between the trunks, and they followed the sound until they discovered the northern wind caught inside a hollow log.
The great wind’s edges were frayed and tangled in splinters, for a woodsman’s axe had pierced the log and pinned one of its long sleeves.
Sirocco knelt and spoke softly, promising that if the northern wind could teach them the proper way to call winter, they would free it.
The northern wind agreed, and its voice, though weak, taught the children the three slow breaths needed to loosen the grip of autumn.
Mistral took the first breath, Bora the second, and Zephyr the third, each child blowing in turn while Sirocco held the log steady.
With the final breath the splinters cracked and the northern wind slipped free, stretching its long arms until the pines shivered and bowed.
Snow began to fall, soft and steady, each flake catching the starlight before settling on the children’s hair like tiny crowns of white.
The northern wind thanked them and promised that next autumn it would blow on time, so the leaves would know when to leave.
Zephyr looked back toward the meadow they had left and felt the ache ease, for he understood that every place must rest in turn.
Together the wind children turned south again, their laughter now quiet, carrying the first flakes home to tuck the sleeping fields.
When they reached the birches the leaves had already fallen, forming a golden path that welcomed the children back to their own trees.
As the moon climbed higher the four winds curled beneath the roots, listening to the slow heartbeat of the earth beneath the new snow.