In the quiet garden, a young student sat beneath the rose trees, his head bowed over a book. His eyes were filled with sorrow, for love had wounded him. He sighed, 'She promised to dance with me—if I bring her a red rose.'

He looked around—white roses, yellow roses, but not one red. All the garden shimmered pale beneath the moonlight, yet no color answered his heart’s desire.

On a nearby oak, a small nightingale heard his words. 'Here at last is a true lover,' she whispered. 'He suffers for love, and that makes him noble.' Her dark eyes shone with pity.

She spread her wings and sang to the stars, 'If a red rose is all he needs, I shall find one for him—no matter the price.'

She flew to the white rose tree by the fountain. 'Give me a red rose,' she pleaded, 'and I will sing my sweetest song for you.' But the tree sighed, 'My roses are white as the sea foam; I cannot give you what you seek.'

Then she flew to the yellow rose tree near the sun-dial. 'Give me a red rose,' she begged again. 'My roses are golden as dawn,' said the tree sadly. 'They will not do.'

At last, she came to the red rose tree by the student's window. 'Give me a single red rose,' said the nightingale, 'and I will sing my heart to you.' The tree trembled. 'My roses are born from blood. You must build it from your song—and your life.'

The nightingale looked toward the sleeping student and then toward the stars. 'For love is better than life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?' And she made her choice.

All night she sang with her breast pressed against a thorn. The sharp point pierced her heart, and her blood mingled with her song. The rose tree trembled, and a single rose began to bloom—petal by petal—deep as dawn.

As the morning sun rose, the bird sang her final song. A cry, both joyful and sorrowful, echoed through the garden—then silence. Beneath her, the perfect red rose glowed like fire.

When the student awoke, he looked out his window and gasped. 'There! A red rose! None like it in all the world!' He plucked it carefully and hurried to the girl's house.

But the girl only laughed. 'My dress is already red,' she said. 'And the Chamberlain’s nephew has sent me jewels—far richer than flowers.' The student’s heart turned cold.

He left the house and threw the rose into the gutter, where it was crushed by a passing cart. Its petals darkened, fading like a broken dream.

He returned to his books. 'Love is foolish,' he said. 'It is better to study philosophy and logic, for they are true.' And he closed his heart like a door.

The garden was still again. The oak leaves trembled softly in the wind. Where the nightingale had sung, only her memory lingered—a song of love so pure it outlasted the world’s indifference.