Christine's Song

Maybe if we all sang the same tune, it would change the world.

Christine was a girl with a song in her heart. Her parents had taught it to her when she was small, and from then on it lived inside her like a secret flame. When she sang it, her worries faded. When she whispered the words, the world felt brighter. She loved it so dearly that she longed to share it with others.

So she copied the words by hand, printing them on stacks of leaflets. One morning, with her arms full of papers and her spirit brimming with hope, she set out through the town.

At first, she was met with smiles. An old man pressed the leaflet to his chest and told her, “This is the most beautiful song I have ever heard.” A young woman wiped her eyes and whispered, “Thank you for sharing this with me.” Christine’s heart soared.

But not everyone was so kind. Some wrinkled their noses and turned away before she had finished a verse. A group of boys laughed at her, chanting, “The rhythm is wrong! No one can dance to that!” Their mockery stung.

Still, Christine walked on, determined. Yet as the streets grew longer and her steps heavier, she noticed the papers she had handed out scattered everywhere. Some were crumpled and tossed into the gutter. Others were shredded, ground into the dirt beneath careless feet. Christine froze. Her throat tightened. She bent to pick up one of the leaflets, its words smeared and muddy. Tears blurred her vision. Why would anyone treat her gift like trash?

That night, unable to sleep, Christine made a bold decision. If they could all hear it—if they truly heard the melody—they would understand.

The next day she climbed to the tallest place in the town square, a stone fountain at its center. The crowd below looked up in surprise as she spread her arms wide and drew in a deep breath. Then, with all her strength, she sang.

Her voice poured through the air, sweet and clear, rising over rooftops, echoing off cobblestones. People paused in their work, tilting their heads. A small circle gathered at the base of the fountain, listening in awe. One by one, they joined her, shy at first, then bold, until their voices mingled with hers.

But not everyone welcomed the sound. From the edge of the square came angry shouts. “Stop forcing this on us!” a man bellowed. A woman clutched her child’s ears, hissing, “Don’t listen, darling. Don’t let it get inside you.” The mob grew louder, fists raised. “We have rights! We will not be made to hear this song!”

Soon the authorities arrived. Their faces were stern. They dragged Christine down from the fountain. Her voice cracked as she tried to sing again, but they silenced her. They took away the very thing that carried her song—her voice itself.

For a moment, Christine despaired. Her throat was empty, her gift stolen. Yet as she looked at the faces in the crowd—the old man, the young woman, the children humming softly to themselves—her sorrow eased. The song had taken root. It was in them now. And when they whistled, when they hummed, when they quietly passed it to another soul, it would live on.

That night, voiceless but not broken, Christine closed her eyes and dreamed. In her vision, the melody swelled until it gathered every person, from every corner of the world, into one vast choir. Their voices rose together, carrying a peace and beauty the earth had never known.