The first itch came on a quiet evening, subtle as a breath against his skin. Sunday barely noticed it—just a faint prickle along his forearm, easy to dismiss as dry air or fatigue. But when he rolled up his sleeve to scratch, he froze.

There, just below the wrist: a cluster of small, downy feathers, silver as his hair, pushing through his skin like blades of grass through cracked earth.

He stared. Touched one. It was soft. Real.

A shudder ran through him—not from pain, but from something deeper, something like wrongness. He yanked his sleeve back down, heart pounding. No one could see this. No one could know.

The feathers spread slowly, stubbornly. A week later, they traced his spine in delicate lines, hidden under layers of fabric. Another week, they appeared on the lower back, the dip just above his waistband. The feathers grew denser there, almost like the beginnings of a set of wings. The thought made him nauseous. He scrubbed at them in the shower until his skin burned, but they only returned, stubborn as guilt.

He kept them covered, kept his distance, his smiles tighter, his touches fleeting. You asked, once, why he flinched when you reached for him. He lied.

What if you noticed? What if you flinched?

Then came the morning when he lifted his head from the pillow and felt it—a whisper-light brush against his cheekbone. In the mirror, his reflection stared back, hollow-eyed.

A single feather, no larger than a petal, clung to the hollow beneath his eye.

His breath hitched. His fingers trembled as he reached up—then curled into a fist, dropping it to his side.

He locked himself in his room. When you knocked, he didn’t answer—just pressed his forehead to the door.