In the heart of the rainforest where the canopy blazes electric green and the air itself hums with life, there flies a parrot named Soleil whose wings carry every shade of purple and blue that the sky has ever been, as if he gathered colors from a thousand dawns and dusks and wove them into himself for safekeeping. The jungle people say Soleil is the forest's voice given wings — that every secret the ancient trees have ever whispered to each other, every love song the river has sung to the stones, every prayer offered up through the green cathedral of leaves, lives somewhere in the intricate swirling patterns of his feathers. He never lands for long, never stays in one place long enough to be owned or named by any single part of the forest — he belongs to all of it equally, banking and turning through the green gold light like a living celebration of the fact that the world is more beautiful than it strictly needed to be. Those who caught a glimpse of him mid-flight reported the same inexplicable feeling — a sudden, overwhelming sense that everything was exactly as it should be, that the universe was fundamentally and irreversibly good, that joy was not something to be earned but something to be claimed like sunlight, freely and without apology. And Soleil flew on, purple and blue and electric against the endless green, leaving behind him in the trembling air the faint impression of laughter.