an older woman and a young boy sitting on a bench near a flock of pigeons

The old woman sat on the park bench, feeding the pigeons. Her hands, gnarled like the branches of an ancient oak, scattered crumbs across the cobblestones. A young boy, no older than six, approached, his eyes wide with wonder. "Are you talking to the birds?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. The woman smiled, a crinkle appearing at the corner of her eye. "Not exactly," she said, her voice raspy with age. "But I listen to them. They have stories to tell." The boy sat beside her, his gaze fixed on the pigeons. "What stories?" he asked, his voice filled with curiosity. The woman chuckled. "Stories of journeys across the sky, of hidden treasures in forgotten gardens, of love and loss and the beauty of the world." The boy's eyes widened further. "Can they really talk?" The woman shook her head. "No, not with words. But with their wings, their feathers, their songs." She pointed to a pigeon strutting across the path, its head held high. "That one," she said, "has seen the world. He's flown over mountains and oc