She came in during the skyfall quiet as ash, eyes like something that had stared too long into absence.
No coat. No shoes. Just a bundle wrapped in feathers that no longer belonged to anything living.
She said nothing for a long time. Then whispered,
“What is all this talk of wings, when there is nothing left above?”
I gave her a drink I only make in years when no birds are seen for a season. Steeped from cloudvine, crushed moonseed, and a single feather burned to shadow. The liquid doesn’t shine, but it echoes.
She drank it slowly. Cupped the mug like a heart that once beat for something.
When she finished, she placed a small piece of sky on the counter—fractured, colorless, humming softly like mourning.
The fire wouldn’t look at her as she left. It cracked once, then dimmed for hours.
I’ve kept the sky shard behind the bar. It no longer reflects anything.9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQ56qInXZFT
But when I pass near it, I sometimes feel a breeze.
And once- I swear it, I heard wings. Far, far above.
ns216.73.216.33da2
and then Add to home screen.