The fairies looked like stone features in an overgrown garden, freezing for every giant in sight. Apart from me. It’s because I listened. When they first arrived at the bottom of my garden, I would try to entice them out with my tiny tea parties. But all I would see was the tiny stone figures, small enough to ride a mouse. Every day I would venture down my garden path into the overgrown weeds to try and talk to the fairies. But there they would stay, frozen, but in a different position than before. One night I heard a tinkling at my window. There was four figures peering in, so small I would have missed them if it were not for all my wishing. Opening the window I let them in, watching the small glowing balls fly past me. Sitting silently on my bed, we stared, as if they were just as fascinated as I. Suddenly another tinkling noise. They were talking to me but they were so small the words didn’t make sense. Astonishment swept over me like the small wisp of her wings as she flew to my ear. That’s when I heard the first feather breath of a fairy.