On winter nights, when the air sparkled with frost, a small black swan flew silently over snow-dusted villages. Her feathers glistened in the moonlight, as dark as the night itself. Tied around her neck was a small pouch filled with scrolls, each containing a forgotten folk tale.

The villagers knew of the swan’s visits, for she came only when the frost lay heavy on the ground. As chimneys smoked and families huddled by fires, they would listen for the quiet flap of her wings. She never knocked or called out, but always left a scroll at the door, each one rolled tight and bound with a silver ribbon.

The tales within were strange and wondrous—stories of ancient forests, talking animals, and spirits who guarded forgotten places. Some said the swan herself was from one of these tales, a creature of magic and mystery.
The black swan flew from village to village, her silent wings carrying the weight of stories old as the stars.