Tick. Tick. Tick. Small wheels scrape along the long grey corridor. Estuar squeezes the rims and pushes toward the orange glow at the far end. Still so far.
Pillar one. Pillar two. Wheels spin faster. Estuar stretches up—fingertips brush the cold glass. Almost. A shadow drops. The sparrow shifts on the ledge.
Plump. The sparrow hops down and puffs its tiny feathers. It pecks the glass. Once. Twice. Right above Estuar's upturned palm. The small bird tilts one round black eye.
"Hee!" A sharp little ping bounces off the stone walls. Estuar giggles, eyes crinkled. The sparrow freezes, one round eye wide, beak still tapping the cool glass.
Estuar rolls right up to the window. Both small palms press flat against the tall glass. Afternoon sun soaks in, thick and gold. His thin fingers glow like blown glass held to fire. He holds very still.
He does not move. Breath fogs the cool pane—two tiny clouds. Then the gold thins out of his knuckles. Slow. Slow. The smudges stay.
Estuar pulls his palms down, slow. Two warm smudges stay on the glass. Wheels tick soft. Rims turn in little circles. The air smells like old stone and sugar.
He rolls on, quiet. The corridor stretches ahead, grey and cool. Another window glows faint orange, far up high. Tick. Tick. Tick. Toward the next warm spot.
