Chapter One - Penguins can't Fly

Ap stood at the edge of the ice floe, staring into the distance, where the horizon dissolved into the shimmering icy air. The other penguins had already left — some to hunt, others to escape the wind. But Ap remained. He knew: beyond that horizon, there was something else.

He had always known.

Since childhood, while other chicks learned to slide gracefully across the snow, he tried to jump. Not just jump — to fly. His small flipper-wings beat the air, and he fell, belly-first, hard onto the ice. The others laughed. Even the elders shook their heads:
— “Ap, you’re a penguin. Penguins don’t fly.”

But something inside him refused to agree.

Penguins — yes, don’t fly.
But Ap — he wasn’t just a penguin.

He felt it in his bones, in the way his chest ached at the sight of the sky. He didn’t dream of fish, or of leading the colony — he dreamed of height.
He watched the petrels slice through the air above the waves, and his heart clenched — not from envy, but from recognition. In each of their wings, he saw himself. Or the one he could become.

One day, an old teacher approached him after yet another failed attempt to take off.
— “You’re stubborn, Ap. Why do you waste your strength on the impossible?”
— “And how do you know it’s impossible?” Ap asked, looking into the elder’s eyes.
— “Because I’ve lived a life.”
— “And I haven’t — yet,” he replied softly, and once again looked to the horizon.

That night, lying in the snow, he didn’t sleep. His feet ached, his back throbbed from the falls, but a quiet fire burned in his soul. He didn’t know exactly what he was searching for — but he knew where to go.

Tomorrow he would leave the colony. Alone. Without farewells.
Not because he didn’t love them.
But because he must.

Because if he didn’t try — if he stayed — he would die.
Not his body.
His soul.

And that was far worse.


Chapter Two — The Silence Beyond

The frost clawed at his skin. The wind howled, as if asking, “Why are you here, Ap? Why not where it’s warm, where there’s fish, where the others are?”
But Ap walked. Alone.

It had been three frozen dawns since he left the colony. He didn’t look back. Not because he was strong — but because he knew that if he did, he might return. And to return would be to betray himself.

The nights were the hardest. No sound. No motion.
Only him and the sky.
That’s when the thoughts came.
Darker than the polar night itself.

— What if you really are just a penguin?
— What if they were right?
— What if you find nothing but snow and loneliness?

He trembled. Not from the cold — from the wind within.
He missed her gaze — warm and silently certain.
He missed his teacher’s voice. Even the laughter of his peers.
Strange, how much we long for those we once fled from.

One morning, after a raging blizzard, he found himself at the edge of a cliff.
Below — the ocean.
Above — the eternal sky.
He stood there, eyes closed, the wind striking his chest. Strong, direct, icy.

And suddenly — silence. Inside.

No thoughts.
No fear.
No longing.
Just him, and that gust of wind.

He spread his flippers like wings — and jumped.
Not to die.
To understand.

His body fell, but his heart soared.
For a moment, he felt as if he wasn’t sinking, but gliding through the air.
He couldn’t even tell — did it last a second, or an eternity?

When he surfaced from the icy water, he laughed. Loudly. Freely.
The world was the same. But he was not.

And in that change — there was meaning.
He had not become a petrel. Had not learned to fly.
But he had become himself.

And for the first time in his life — that was enough.


Chapter Three — Reflection

Ap didn’t know how long he had been drifting on the broken ice floe. Time had stopped existing. It no longer ticked in the rhythm of days — it had become the breath of waves, the pauses between thoughts, the flicker of light in the clouds.

He was no longer searching for answers. He simply was. And in that being, there was something freeing.

One day, in the distance — a silhouette.
A penguin.

Ap tensed. It had been so long since he’d seen another. Since he’d heard a voice. Something tightened inside him — fear, perhaps, or shame. How do you face someone else when you’ve become… someone else?

The stranger approached slowly, steadily. He was older. A scar across his chest. One flipper moved strangely. But there was dignity in his gait.

“I see you left, too,” he said. His voice was deep, calm.
“I… I don’t know where I’m going,” Ap replied.
“But you know why. That’s enough.”

They sat in silence. The wind rustled, the ice cracked beneath them. But the silence was warm — not lonely.

“Did you think you were the only one?” the elder asked.
“Yes,” said Ap.
“That’s the first illusion the path breaks. The second — that the path must lead somewhere.”

Ap studied his face. In the depth of those dark eyes he saw reflections of sky, of storm, of pain… and of peace.
“I don’t know who I am,” Ap admitted.
“That’s already more than many who stayed behind can say. They have names, roles, rules. You have emptiness.”
“It frightens me.”
“It also creates. All things new are born from emptiness.”

That night, they sat beneath the fire of the sky — the northern lights. Two penguins, two runaways, two wanderers who had walked alone just to finally meet.

And for the first time, Ap understood:
the journey to oneself isn’t always lonely.
Sometimes, it’s just the search for someone who understands.


Chapter Four — The Return of Light

He walked back the same path, but everything was different.

The snow still crunched. The wind still howled. But in his heart, there was no more anxiety. No rush. No desire to prove anything.

He knew who he was.

Ap wasn’t returning for recognition. Not for triumph. He walked because at some point he had understood: you don’t become yourself by running away. You become yourself by accepting who you are — and sharing it with others.

The colony met him in silence. Some froze in place. Some turned away. The elder stepped forward — lines on his beak, a stern gaze.

“You left without saying goodbye. You broke the order.”
“I wasn’t seeking order,” Ap said calmly. “I was seeking truth. And I found it.”

Silence.

“Penguins don’t fly,” someone said from the back.
Ap smiled.
“I didn’t fly. I just stopped falling.”

No one clapped. No one embraced him. But among the silent faces, he saw other eyes — young, bright, hungry for meaning. One of the chicks stepped closer.

“How did you know it was okay to go alone?” he asked.

“Because one day I realized: worse than not finding — is never seeking at all.”

That night, Ap didn’t leave.

He stayed. Not as part of the system.
As a beacon. As a possibility.

From that day on, anyone who looked to the horizon knew — one of them had already been there.

And maybe, one day, someone else would leap from the cliff.
Not to break.
But to remember who they truly are.