When Kian inherited the tar, it came wrapped in a weathered velvet cloth, its strings worn and its wood gently polished by years of use. His grandfather, a reclusive musician known for playing under the shade of the ancient mulberry tree in their garden, had always told him stories of the mystical powers the tar held. "This instrument," his grandfather would say with a knowing smile, "was once played for the Simorgh, the great bird of wisdom, perched atop the mountains beyond the clouds."

Kian had never fully understood his grandfather's stories, dismissing them as fanciful tales meant to stir the imagination. But as he held the tar in his hands, he felt something stir within him—a presence, ancient and timeless, pressing against his soul, urging him to play.

That evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills of Tehran, casting the sky in hues of pink and gold, Kian sat beneath the mulberry tree. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine, and the world felt still. Tentatively, he plucked the first string.

The sound was unlike anything he had ever heard. It resonated deeply in his chest, vibrating through his very bones. It was as if the tar was singing in a language he had never known but somehow understood. The melody flowed effortlessly, as if the tar itself was guiding his fingers.

But then something strange began to happen.

From the branches above, the sparrows that had perched there all day began to stir. At first, it was subtle—a slight rustling of feathers. Then, a single sparrow flapped its wings and soared into the air. But this was no ordinary sparrow. Its wings glimmered with golden feathers, and its eyes burned with an otherworldly light.

Kian stopped playing, his heart racing. The bird circled him, drawing closer, before it landed gracefully on the ground before him. It was no longer a sparrow, but a magnificent bird of myth—its golden feathers shimmering in the last light of the day, its wings carrying the weight of centuries.

"I have heard the song of the Simorgh," the bird said, its voice rich and melodic, like the sound of distant thunder. "And now, we are free."

Kian blinked in disbelief. His fingers still hovered over the tar, the last note hanging in the air like a lingering echo.

"Who... what are you?" Kian asked, his voice trembling.

"I am a servant of the Simorgh, born from the song you play. And so are the others," the bird replied, glancing toward the trees.

As if on cue, more birds began to emerge—pigeons, robins, and even a falcon—all transforming before Kian's eyes. They grew larger, more majestic, their feathers adorned with intricate patterns and iridescent colors. Each one seemed to carry with it a fragment of something ancient, something forgotten.

The falcon perched upon a branch, its eyes gleaming. "We are the Simorgh’s children, and we have come to answer the call."

Kian’s breath caught in his throat. He had heard of the Simorgh—the legendary bird that embodied all wisdom, whose feathers were said to contain the secrets of the universe. But he had never imagined that such a creature could be real, let alone be summoned by a melody from his tar.

"Why have you come?" Kian asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"We have come because you have awakened us," the falcon said, its voice deep and resonant. "The music you play stirs something within us, a memory long forgotten. The Simorgh has chosen you to carry its song into the world once more. It is a song of transformation—a song that will change the hearts of those who hear it."

As Kian continued to play, the air around him seemed to shimmer, the world fading away as the birds danced in the sky, their wings creating ripples of light. Each note from the tar felt like a thread weaving the fabric of a new reality, one where myth and legend were no longer confined to the pages of ancient books.

But then, as the final note of the melody rang out, the birds began to fade. The golden sparrow fluttered to the ground, its wings now ordinary, its eyes no longer glowing. The falcon perched silently, its feathers returning to their natural colors.

Kian’s fingers stopped moving, the music ending as abruptly as it had begun. He sat there, his heart still racing, the weight of what had just occurred sinking in. The birds had returned to their natural state, their mythic forms slipping back into the realm of memory.

But Kian knew—he knew that the Simorgh’s song was now within him. The tar was no longer just an instrument. It was a gateway, a bridge between the mundane world and the realm of the divine. And as he looked up at the sky, now darkening with the approach of night, he could sense that the Simorgh was watching, waiting for the next song to be played.

The world was full of mysteries, he realized. And his journey, like the music of the tar, had only just begun.