High under the roof of the old town hall, in a bustling city dovecote, lived a small pigeon named Postman. He was gray as a little cloud before a storm and had the most curious eyes in the world. But Postman had one great trouble. He couldn't read maps properly.
While other pigeons flew effortlessly with little papers from one window to another, Postman always got lost. All the streets looked the same to him from above, all the roofs had a similar red color, and the lines on the map tangled like thin spaghetti.
One evening he returned to the dovecote late, all tired with drooping wings. In his beak he clutched a small shiny pebble that he was supposed to deliver to his friend Priss on the other side of the square. Instead, he had circled the church tower three times and nearly ended up in the bakery chimney.
Most of the pigeons were already asleep, heads tucked under their wings. Only one was waiting for him. It was Hazelnut, the oldest and wisest pigeon in the whole city. His feathers were no longer gray, but rather the color of walnuts, and his gaze was calm and understanding.
"You were wandering again, weren't you?" Hazelnut cooed kindly.
Postman nodded and the pebble sadly fell from his beak. "Those maps are useless! All the lines are the same. I'll never learn this and I won't be a good postman."
Hazelnut smiled. "Maybe you don't need a map for your eyes. Maybe a map for your ears is enough."
"For ears?" Postman wondered. "That doesn't exist."
"Oh yes," said Hazelnut. "You just have to create it yourself. Close your eyes and listen."
Postman uncertainly closed his eyelids. At first he heard nothing, just the beating of his own little heart. But then the sounds of the city began to emerge like stars in the night sky.
"What do you hear?" Hazelnut asked quietly.
"I hear... jingling," Postman whispered.
"Correct. That's tram number three. It always jingles like that when it turns at the old market. It's its voice," Hazelnut explained. "And now?"
"I hear rushing. Like when wind blows through leaves, but always the same."
"That's the big fountain in the middle of the square. Its water never sleeps. It's the heart of the square," Hazelnut continued. "And that deep sound that comes every so often?"
Just then a loud "BING-BONG" rang out. The sound was so powerful that Postman's feathers trembled.
"Those are the tower clock bells!" he exclaimed excitedly. "They chime every hour!"
"See?" Hazelnut smiled. "The city speaks to you. Every sound is like a mark on a map. The tram's jingling is a turn, the fountain's rush is the center of the square, and the clock's voice is your main landmark. Tomorrow I'll start teaching you how to fly by them."
The next morning Hazelnut took Postman to the edge of the roof. The city below them was awakening to a new day.
"Your first task," said Hazelnut, "is to fly to the fountain and back. But you mustn't look at the houses. Follow only the sound."
Postman was nervous. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and listened. He found that familiar, soothing rushing sound. He flapped his wings and flew straight toward it. The sound grew louder and louder until he felt fine water mist on his feathers. He opened his eyes and saw he was right above the sparkling fountain water! With a joyful coo he turned around and flew back to the dovecote.
"Excellent!" Hazelnut praised him. "Now something harder. Do you see that tall chestnut tree in the park?"
Postman nodded.
"Bring me a leaf from it. But I won't show you the way. I'll only tell you." Hazelnut cleared his throat and began: "Fly toward the ticking of the big clock. When the ticking is loudest, you'll be right above the church. There, turn right, toward the cheerful shouting and laughter."
"Laughter?" Postman didn't understand.
"Yes. There's a children's playground in the park. Children always play there. Their laughter will lead you straight to the park. And right behind the playground stands that old chestnut tree."
Postman determinedly pushed off from the roof. He flew toward the ticking, which became clearer and clearer. "Tick-tock, tick-tock," echoed in his ears. When the sound was strongest, exactly as Hazelnut had said, he spotted the church roof below him. He turned right and pricked up his ears.
And indeed! From the distance he began to hear the thin, cheerful sound of children's laughter and shouting. He flew toward it like a bee toward the scent of a flower. The laughter grew closer and closer. Below him he saw swings and climbing frames full of children. And right behind them stood a huge chestnut tree with leaves as big as palms.
Postman carefully plucked one and with a proud coo set off on his way back. He no longer needed advice. He simply flew toward where his home was and where his pigeon friends were gently cooing.
When he landed next to Hazelnut with the leaf in his beak, his eyes shone with happiness.
"I did it!" he cooed. "I heard the whole city! The children's laughter, the tram's jingling, and the fountain's rush. It's the best map in the world!"
Hazelnut looked at him proudly. "Everyone has their own path, Postman. You didn't just find a leaf from the chestnut tree. You found your gift. You don't need to read from paper when you can read with sounds."
From that day on, Postman never got lost again. He became the best auditory navigator in the whole city. And when little pigeons were learning to fly, he didn't just show them maps. He taught them above all to listen.
"Listen carefully," he often told them. "The city itself will tell you where to fly."
And perhaps, when you next walk down the street, try closing your eyes for a moment, too. What sounds does your city have? Who knows, maybe you too will discover your own secret sound map.