The Nightingale Who Loved a Prince

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K-8yVfKp9QQ&t=57s

In an ancient forest far beyond the reach of maps or men, the trees whispered in forgotten tongues and twilight never quite left. The seasons passed in reverence there, and the world outside dared not touch its silence. In this hidden place, there lived a nightingale named Yong. She was no ordinary bird. Her feathers shimmered like candlelight through smoke, and her voice — oh, her voice — could make time hesitate. The forest called her sacred. The wind carried her songs into dreams. Yet Yong knew loneliness, for though the trees bowed to her song, they could never sing back. And no creature had ever loved her. Not until the boy came.

Spring: The First Apple His name was Jess. He was no older than ten when he first wandered into the forest, cheeks flushed from running, arms full of stolen apples, and a flute in his pocket. He found Yong wounded, her wing caught in thorns beneath the apple tree. “Oh,” he breathed, kneeling. “Did you fall?” She trembled but did not flee. There was something in his voice — a gentleness wrapped in wonder. Carefully, he offered her half an apple, watching her peck at it with bright eyes. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I won’t tell anyone you're here.” He came again the next day, and the next. With apples. With songs. With stories of his lonely cottage and the old woman who raised him. He played his flute for her — terribly, at first. Yong chirped in confusion, and he laughed. “Don’t laugh at me! You’re not so perfect either.” But she was, and he knew it.
Summer: The Song of Laughter The summer sun painted the forest gold. Jess had grown taller. His voice cracked when he sang, and he carried a worn notebook of poems he never dared show anyone — except the nightingale. “I don’t know why, but I feel like you understand,” he murmured as she sang on a branch above. “Like… you see me.” She did. One day, he leaned back against the apple tree, biting into a fruit he’d polished for her. “If you were human,” he said softly, “I think I’d love you.” The words stirred something ancient in the air. Yong's song that day trembled, uncertain, as though realizing her own heart.
Autumn: The Realization Leaves like fire drifted from the trees. Yong sang less, watching Jess with an ache she didn’t understand. She envied the grass he lay upon, the paper he touched, the sky he stared into. I want to speak to him, she thought. I want to hold his hand. She did not know birds could wish so deeply. The wind answered her longing, carrying with it the scent of magic.
Winter: The Bargain Winter came cold and cruel. Jess, now fifteen, still came to visit though his fingers were red with frost. He left apples at the tree’s roots and whispered, “Even if you’re not here… I’ll still come.” That night, Yong cried. Her feathers felt heavier. Her voice, dimmer. “I can’t lose him,” she whispered into the moonlight. “Please… let me love him. Not just as a song.” And the forest listened. From the shadows emerged a spirit, robed in ivy and frost. Her face was old as the mountains and young as snowfall. “You love a human,” she said. “And for that, you wish to change.” Yong nodded, her body trembling. “I will grant your wish. But hear me: you shall be reborn as a girl, human in flesh. Yet memory will slip through your fingers like melted snow. You must make him love you again, truly — not as he loved your song, but you. If he does not, you will fade forever.” Yong did not hesitate.
Rebirth Under Blossoms When spring returned, Jess came to the apple tree — and found a child sleeping beneath its branches. A girl of seven or eight, pale as dawn, with long dark hair and golden flecks in her eyes. He looked around. No tracks. No carriage. No note. Only the tree — blooming too early. He scooped her up, heart pounding. “It’s you,” he whispered. He didn’t know how he knew. But it was her. Growing Together He called her Sun. Sun grew with mystery in her veins. She was quiet at first, clinging to Jess with trust that startled the villagers. She called him “Jessie,” sang melodies she could not remember learning, and wept at the sound of birdsong. As years passed, they grew close — not as siblings, not quite as father and daughter. They shared meals and laughter, secrets and seasons. But something changed when she turned sixteen. Her smile became hesitant. Her heart raced when Jess touched her shoulder. He too began to look away too quickly, his words stuttering when she sang. One night she asked, “Jess… why do I feel like I’m forgetting something important? Like I used to be something else.” He looked at her, aching. “Maybe you were meant to become something new.” But in truth, he had started to dream of feathers and starlight. Of a song in the dark. He had started to remember. The Fading At seventeen, Sun fell ill. Her voice cracked. Her eyes grew distant. She sat under the apple tree, silent, as if waiting to be claimed by it. Jess begged doctors. Searched grimoires. Prayed. Until, one night, the forest spirit returned to him. “She is slipping,” the spirit said. “She cannot hold this form much longer. Only your love can anchor her.” “I love her,” Jess said. “I always have.” “Then go.”
The Kiss Beneath the Tree He found her at twilight, eyes half-closed, lips pale. “Yong,” he whispered, “it’s me. You were a nightingale. You gave everything to love me. And I was too blind to see it sooner.” Her eyes opened. “…Jess?” He kissed her. Not out of pity. Not confusion. But love. Complete and ancient. And like that — she lived.
Rivalry and Revelation Years passed. Jess, now grown and radiant, was revealed to be the secret heir of a fallen kingdom — a prince raised in hiding. Nobles came from far and wide to court the beautiful Sun, now called Lady Yongsun. They brought jewels, silks, ships. But Jess watched in silence, leaning against the apple tree. Yong went to him. “Why do you not fight for me?” “I already have. In every life.” She took his hand. “Then let me sing our song.” Their Love Song Under starlight, they sang: “If you were feathers, I’d be the wind. If you were sky, I’d rise and spin. If you were silence, I’d be your hymn. If I were lost, you'd call me in.” Their voices were one. Together in All Things They ruled not as king and queen, but as poets. Lovers. Dreamers. They had children who sang to trees and painted stars. And when age claimed them, they passed away beneath the apple tree — holding hands, their breaths aligned. That night, two shooting stars crossed the sky.
Modern Age In a quiet park in Seoul, a boy sat on a swing, watching clouds drift by. A girl approached, humming a song too old for her age. Jess turned. “Yongsun?” She blinked. “How did you know my name?” He stood, trembling. “Because I’ve loved you across centuries.” And he hugged her, laughing and crying. And so it goes. Whenever God paints the sky with stars, He sets two more in motion — a nightingale and her prince — always destined to find each other again. No matter the age. No matter the form. No matter the silence between songs. Love remembers.