You are disabled.

It was not yet light.

The house was filled with the pre-dawn silence: deep shadows on the stairs, amber spots from the night light in the hallway, the quiet smell of dried herbs from the bags hanging by the door. On the table were blankets folded into a neat pile, woolen gloves, and something new: a light harness the color of warm honey, lined with soft fleece and stitched with gold thread.

He squatted right in front of you, so that your eyes were at the same level. There was not a drop of pity in his gaze, only the warm, calm concentration of a man who had thought everything through.

“May I?” — He touched the buckle with his fingers, showing how the lock worked. “No jerking. Two fastenings - on the chest and behind the shoulders, the third - under the lower back, so that the load is distributed smoothly. Any strap can be removed in one movement. — "If there's anything wrong, you tell me right away."

You nod. His palms are warm; when he fastens the belts, he constantly asks: "is it too tight?", "is it more comfortable?", "should I tie it softer here?" - and each time he waits for your "yes". He takes his time. The elbow grips are covered with fleece, the belts don't rub, the buckles are spring-loaded, and on the inside there are tiny rune-stitches to keep the fabric warm.

"Your ears might get blocked," — he smiles, adjusting your thin knitted hat. — "Tell me if it starts. And..." — he puts a small oval amulet to your chest. — "It's like a soft pillow for breathing: it evens out the air flow so it doesn't get caught."

You go out onto the roof through a narrow door. Twilight rises from the horizon like transparent water; the world is still gray, but pink is already showing through the gray. The air is cold, clean - it smells of damp tiles and a distant river. The edge of the roof is framed by a low parapet; he stands next to you, places his feet a little wider, checks the traction of his soles, spreads his wings.

You hear the sound of the wings even before they flap - a dry, velvety rustle of feathers when he spreads them. Each feather catches the pre-dawn wind; the tips vibrate barely audibly, as if tuning to the right note. He bends down and picks you up: one hand under your knees, the other securely under your back, and at that moment the harness is not just straps, but a soft cradle that bends under your body, relieving excess tension.

"Ready?" — he whispers at your temple.

You nod, and he takes the first step into the void.

The world doesn't collapse — it opens up. The very first moment — a slight loss of support, like swinging on a swing. Your stomach sinks down, and your heart makes an extra beat. Then the wings chop the air — once, twice — and a viscous force picks you up from below. A cold stream hits your cheeks, takes your breath away — and then the amulet on your chest gently “extends its palm,” smoothing out the pressure. You inhale — it works. You fly up.

The roofs of the houses shrink, turning into even squares and oblique lines. Narrow streets form a neat pattern, like a fine engraving. The river glows steel, and then silver, and in one place, where the water is shallow, you see how the brown shadows of the stones break through to the surface. Smoke from the chimneys rises in even white columns and flies to the sides, clinging to your tracks.

He holds you securely, and you feel not a “transfer,” but a flight together. The entire harness works as intended: no jerks, everything is soft, the body lies comfortably; under the lower back it is warm, under the shoulder blades it is stable. He slightly changes the grip: the palm under the knees shifts so that it does not go numb, the thumb discreetly massages the muscle, driving away the numbness. He is always close - not above, not in front, - close.

“Look to the left,” — he says quietly. — “See? There is a flock spending the night there.”

You turn your head, and indeed - birds are circling above the lake, merging into one living pattern. They turn over onto the wing in rare splashes of white.