Chapter 5

 Chapter Five – The Song of My Flute

The school courtyard was full of noise and color that morning. Drums pounded, dancers spun in bright wrappers, and singers shouted with all their strength. Parents, teachers, and students filled the seats, clapping and cheering for their favorites.

I stood behind the stage, holding my flute so tight my palms were sweaty. My heart was beating so loud I was sure everyone could hear it. Annie touched my arm gently.

“You’ve practiced for this, Lyra,” she whispered. “Remember — the flute will speak for you.”

When the announcer called my name, my legs felt weak. I stepped out, and the crowd began to whisper.

“The flute girl? She really joined?”

“She’ll embarrass herself.”

The words stabbed me, but I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I lifted the flute to my lips and blew the first note.

It came out soft, like the sigh of the morning breeze. Then it grew, smooth and steady, flowing like a small river. Slowly, the noise of the crowd faded. The courtyard became quiet, as if the whole world was listening only to me.

The music poured out of me, carrying all the pain, the hope, the fear, and the dream I had held inside for so long. And then, at the end, I began to sing the little song I had written the night before:

“Hear the wind, hear the sky,

Dreams can never truly die.

Though the world may turn away,

My song will rise, it finds its way.”

My voice and the flute twined together, trembling but strong. I didn’t open my eyes until the last note faded. For a moment, there was silence — a silence so deep it scared me.

Then, all at once, the courtyard exploded with clapping and cheers. Annie was the first, jumping up with her hands high, shouting my name. The teachers leaned forward, smiling. Some parents were wiping their eyes.

That was when I saw him — Chuka. The same boy who laughed at me, who said my cheeks would burst like a balloon. He was standing with his arms folded, his face dark, like someone had just stolen his favorite toy. His friends weren’t laughing anymore. They were clapping with everyone else, leaving him alone, his smirk gone.

And in the middle of the crowd, I saw my father — clapping. At first slowly, as if unsure, then louder, faster. Beside him, my mother’s face was soft, not angry or cold, but proud. Proud of me.

When the judges announced my name as the winner, I felt my knees go weak again. But this time, it wasn’t fear. It was joy. I held the little golden trophy in my shaking hands, and for the first time in my life, I wasn’t just “the girl with the silly flute.” I was Lyra — the girl whose song had been heard.

That evening, my mother cooked my favorite meal. She didn’t say much, only:

“You played well today.”

My father placed his hand on my shoulder and nodded. “Maybe this flute of yours… maybe it is more than just noise.”

I went to bed hugging my flute. I knew then that this was only the beginning. M

y music had finally found its voice.