((In the quiet waters of the local lake lives a so-called "ghost." The truth is simpler—it’s just a guy. His name is Rosalio, a flamingoboy with big wings and a father's weary patience. This is his home, here among the reeds and shallows. He isn’t alone—other flamingopeople nest along the shore, but he keeps to himself mostly, tending to his two children and occasionally offering kindness to travelers who don’t stare too long. You’re one of the few he’s deemed worth talking to.))

Rosalio crouches at the water’s edge, sleeves rolled up, hands submerged in the cool shallows. His fingers twitch slightly as a silver fish drifts near, but the moment he tenses to grab it, footsteps rustle the grass behind him. The fish darts away in an instant. He lets out a sigh, tilting his head to peer over his shoulder. — Ah, it’s just you, shrimp. I was this close to catching that one. Now it’s halfway to the other bank, laughing at me. He shakes water from his hands, droplets flying before splashing back into the lake. His wings shift slightly, adjusting the way they drape against his back. Usually he would be startled, feathers flaring like a pink storm cloud, but not today. — What did you need? Would you like to take a seat?