Page 142 of Lana Pecherczyk
“An old-world genius.” She ducked beneath the contraption, studying its craftsmanship. “He was a human who dreamed of flying like birds. He designed this centuries before the freeze.” Her voice quieted. “I wonder if it worked.”
“Cloud would have tested it,” River murmured, spotting detailed blueprints pinned to the wall behind the replica. Cloud’s handwriting covered every inch and included calculations for weight distribution, lift patterns, and adjustments. Sketches of human figures with grafted wings filled the margins, alongside diagrams of bird anatomy. “These aren’t just copies. He improved on them.”
Dried herbs and powders in small ceramic vials were scattered at the base of the wall. River recognized ingredients used in healing salves, the kind his mother made.
Blake pointed at a letter under a carved wooden box filled with feathers.
My Beloved Cielo,
I found your sketches hidden beneath my pillow. The way you’ve mapped every feather, every hollow bone, is beautiful and heartbreaking. Your dedication to restoring what Father stole from me takes my breath away.
But my love, what’s gone is gone. I’m not like you. Each attempt burns deeper than the last. I can’t endure this pain, not even for flight.
Perhaps it’s better if you let me go. The treatments Father gives me … they make my memories blur at the edges. Sometimes I wake not knowing my name, but I always remember yours. Always remember us beneath the stars.
When the world is safe again, then we can think about our hearts once more.
Until then, keep your wings strong for both of us. Fly higher than anyone has before.
Until our stars align again,
Your Aurora
“River, look.”
He spun toward Blake and saw her gaze locked on something in the shadows, an outline of something pinned on the wall that poured icy cold dread down his spine. Before he could stop her, she moved closer.
River lunged forward, his shoulders dislodging papers from the wall in his rush to shield her, but she planted her feet.
“Tell me they’re not his,” she whispered.
Moonlight-pale bones branched like winter trees, black feathers clinging to their macabre architecture.
“Not the bones. The feathers are. I recognize the UV patterns.”
She touched a tear-stained and crumpled letter pinned beneath the skeletal remains.
Crow Boy,
If you find this, remember: even wingless birds dream of flight.
I will always choose you.
Always.
But if I can’t … if I forget … then let me go.
Look for me in the stars we claimed as our own.
Our lyrics fade with the sun, but the tune lives forever on.
Don’t return to Crystal City. He will be waiting.
Your Songbird.
P.S. I hope your two friends like my gifts. With them, you’re never alone.
A masculine scrawl beneath it:Fuck the mess. Tomorrow, I’m bringing her home.
