[The pen sits awkward in his grip. He keeps it simple, detached, like recounting someone else's story and not his own. The words come slow, each one carefully measured.]
Ash in her breath. Light bent through ruin. A thousand wings, broken, but still beating.
[He leaves it at that. Plain. Unadorned. Folding the paper once, he holds it tucked against his palm. The weight of what isn't written hangs as heavy as what is.]
This feels like something that should be left to the wind to carry. Do you intend to keep yours close?
no subject
Ash in her breath. Light bent through ruin. A thousand wings, broken, but still beating.
[He leaves it at that. Plain. Unadorned. Folding the paper once, he holds it tucked against his palm. The weight of what isn't written hangs as heavy as what is.]
This feels like something that should be left to the wind to carry. Do you intend to keep yours close?