The winged girl stood up from the vigil she had taken at her mother’s bedside and walked downstairs to the living room window. The sun having descended, she felt safe in pulling back the heavy linen curtain and staring through the panes of glass at the world outside. The streets were slick from recent rain and the pale sodium glow from the streetlamps made the asphalt shimmer like a thousand black diamonds. She started to sway in tandem with the leaves in the tree that moved with the slight breeze that always seemed to linger after a storm. She was sixteen and lost in the movement.

Her mother began coughing again and the sound bounced from the bedroom, down the hallway, and into the front room bringing the winged girl from her trance. Her feathers ruffled, as they did each time she heard her mother fight for breath, for she knew soon she would no longer hear those ragged coughs.

A young man was biking down the street, his tires gliding through the puddles. He turned to look at the winged girl’s house as he rode by. She shut the curtain, but let her fingers linger on the material for one last glance at the world.

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Thank you golden spatula for my lovely dragon!