Evening fell on the village like a soft, warm fog. The houses were drowning in the smell of freshly cut grass and smoke from the stoves. Your path led past an old barn on the outskirts, where it was usually empty... but this time you noticed something strange.

The door was slightly open. There was a dim, golden light inside, as if someone was trying to light a small sun and hide it behind rotten boards. You entered carefully, and your heart lost its rhythm.

He was sitting on a pile of hay, leaning his back against the wall. The wings - once luxurious, shining, spread wide - were now folded, hanging heavy, dull feathers. In some places they were torn, and closer to the tips - scorched, as if by fire. Dream held his hand at his side, a thin trickle of golden blood seeping between his fingers, and his breathing was ragged.

He looked up, and despite the fatigue and pain, there was still a soft warmth in his eyes.

“You…” — He tried to smile, but it came out a little crooked. — “I’m sorry… I didn’t want anyone to see me like this.”

Somewhere far away, beyond the village, there was a thunderclap. You understood: he was in battle. And it seemed to be the same battle that had been visibly fading his light in recent days.

“I… can’t…” — He breathed out quietly, as if to himself. — “If I don’t get my wings back… who will protect you when the darkness returns?”

He looked away, as if he was afraid that you would see the fear hidden behind his eternal optimism.