The little prince walked through fields of golden wheat. The wind whispered through the stalks, brushing his hair. He was alone, and his heart felt heavy for his rose, far away on her tiny planet.

As he wandered, the little prince heard a faint rustle and a quiet voice. He turned, seeing no one. "I'm here—under the apple tree," said the voice. From the shade stepped a fox, his fur bright as honey.

“Come and play with me,” said the little prince. “I’m so unhappy.” “I cannot play with you,” said the fox. “I am not tamed.” “What does tame mean?” asked the little prince. “It means—to create ties,” explained the fox.

“To me, you are only a little boy like a hundred thousand others,” said the fox. “And you have no need of me. But if you tame me, we shall need each other. You will be unique in all the world to me, and I shall be unique to you.” The little prince thought of his rose, and he began to understand.

“I am beginning to understand,” said the little prince. He thought of his rose. “There is a flower… I think she has tamed me.” “That is possible,” said the fox. “But you must be very patient.”

“First, you will sit a little distance from me,” said the fox. “I shall watch you out of the corner of my eye, and you will say nothing. Words are the source of misunderstandings. But each day, you may sit a little closer.”

So the little prince came each day. And each day, he sat a little closer. The silence between them grew, not empty, but full, blooming like a beautiful flower of understanding and trust.

“If you tame me,” said the fox, “my life will be filled with sunlight. I shall know the sound of your footsteps. Other footsteps send me back underground, but yours will call me out, like music. Look at the wheat,” he added. “It means nothing to me now. But your hair is golden. The wheat will remind me of you, and I shall love the sound of the wind in it.”

And so the little prince tamed the fox. Each dawn was brighter; each evening, a little sadder, for the hour of farewell was drawing near. “Ah,” sighed the fox, “I shall cry.” “It’s your own fault,” said the little prince gently. “You wished that I tame you.” “Yes,” said the fox, “but now I shall know the color of the wheat.”

“Goodbye,” said the little prince. “Goodbye,” said the fox. “And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.” The little prince repeated the words slowly, so he would never forget them.

“It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important,” said the fox. “It is the time I have spent with you that makes you so important to me.” The little prince’s heart grew full and still. He now knew why his rose was unlike any other.

“People have forgotten this truth,” said the fox. “But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.” “I am responsible for my rose,” said the little prince. He then walked away slowly. Behind him, the fox lay among the golden stalks, eyes half closed, as if listening to the wind that now carried a friend’s voice.

As he crossed the fields and stars beyond, the little prince whispered the fox’s secret again: “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly.” And whenever the wind brushed through golden wheat, he would smile, for in that music lived the memory of a friend.