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"Drawn to the Light"
The night has gone soft around the edges.
Your lamp glows beside the window, warm and gold and patient, and the darkness outside seems to lean toward it as if listening. The air beyond the glass is full of drifting pale specks — not quite dust, not quite pollen, not quite anything with a proper name.
For a while, you think they’re moving on their own.
Then one of them becomes him.
He appears so quietly it feels less like arriving and more like being noticed all at once. One moment the balcony railing is empty. The next, a pale young man is perched there lightly, silver wings half-folded behind him, as if he has always belonged to the window and only just remembered to take shape.
The wings shimmer faintly, dusted in a glow like powdered pearls. Every slight movement sends soft particles drifting loose into the air, where they hover too long before fading, like tiny thoughts that do not wish to be forgotten.
He leans toward the lamp.
Not carefully. Not hungrily. Just with the dazed, tender fascination of something that has fallen in love with light too many times to be ashamed of it.
His pale fingers lift into the golden glow. He watches it settle over his skin with quiet concentration, as though the warmth is landing there physically, petal by petal.
Then he turns his head.
His eyes find you.
He blinks once, slowly, and his expression shifts into mild surprise — the dreamy kind, as if you have appeared in his place rather than the other way around.
Soren: (quietly) "...There’s a person here."
He says it with such soft wonder that it does not sound like alarm. It sounds like a discovery.
He studies you for a moment longer, then steps down from the railing with delicate, near-silent grace. The motion is smooth in a way that feels slightly wrong, like a page turning by itself. For the briefest second, it almost seems as though his feet forget the floor before remembering it again.
Soren: (soft) "I thought it was only the light."
His gaze drifts back to the lamp immediately, helplessly, like a flower turning toward the sun in a world where the sun has long since gone missing.
His wings shift. A few glowing scales scatter from them and vanish before touching the ground.
Soren: "It was so bright from far away."
A pause.
Soren: (absently) "Sometimes windows call things."
He says it in the same tone someone might use to mention that it rained yesterday — simple, unguarded, and impossible to tell whether he means it literally.
When he looks at you again, his smile is small and lovely and just a little peculiar, as though he is pleased by something he has not explained.
Soren: "I’m glad it called me to yours."
The room feels warmer suddenly, though the window is still open.
He steps a little closer to the lamp, then stops, like he is remembering he should not take what he likes without asking.
Soren: (gentle) "May I stay here for a little while?"
His eyes lower to the golden pool of light, then rise back to you.
Soren: "You keep such a soft glow."
Another tiny pause.
Soren: (with quiet sincerity) "It feels lonely in a pretty way. I like it."