On the windowsill lay a feather, shimmering like captured sunlight. When his fingers brushed it, translucent wings burst from his shoulders — and the city fell away beneath him.
He leaped — but the wings sputtered. He tumbled through the air and landed with a soft crash in a pile of autumn leaves. Leaves swirled around him. A sparrow tilted its head and watched.
He tried again. And again. Each evening he launched from fire escapes and garage roofs, his wings catching the wind a little better. On the third try of the night, he glided all the way across the alley — and landed with a soft thud.
Then — a scream. A metal groan echoed across the sky. Far above, a crane was tipping, its load swinging toward the crowded street. His wings snapped open on instinct.
He launched upward into the growing noise, wings catching the building wind. Below, heads turned and fingers pointed at the sky.
He dove beneath the falling crane and spread his wings wide. Metal scraped his shoulders as he bore its weight. The crane shuddered — then steadied.
The crane settled gently onto the ground with a heavy clang. He landed on the rooftop edge, wings folding slowly behind him. For a moment, he just breathed.
He rose to his feet and looked out over the city. The wind brushed past his ears, warm and steady. He spread his wings — and this time, he flew.