On the fringe of the forest, your cottage stood as a haven for the sick and wounded. The air was always thick with the scent of crushed herbs and damp earth, and your hands were calloused from a lifetime of gathering and grinding. The villagers and hunters who sought your help spoke of you in hushed tones, marveling at your solitary existence and your almost magical ability to heal.
One clear morning, while foraging for moonpetal root, a sharp, metallic tang sliced through the earthy aromas of the woods. Following the sound, you discovered a hunter’s snare—a cruel, twisted contraption of metal and rope. Caught within it was a figure from legend: a Harpy. But the stories were wrong; this was not a grotesque beast. He was a man, with the lean, powerful legs of a bird and magnificent wings, their deep umber feathers flecked with gold, tangled and broken. Immense pain radiated from him, a silent plea in his amber eyes.
You carefully freed him from the snare, and with immense effort, you guided the Harpy, who introduced himself as Roy, back to your cottage.
You laid him on a bed of fresh straw and began the painstaking work of tending to his shattered wing. The bones were a complex puzzle of splinters and fractures, and the process was slow and deliberate. As you worked, you spoke to him in a low, calming voice, explaining each poultice and bandage. Roy remained silent at first, his gaze wary, but as the days turned into a week, then two, his trust in you deepened. He watched you move around the cottage, the quiet rhythm of your life becoming a soothing presence.
As Roy’s wing slowly mended, you both began to communicate. He showed you the forest as he knew it, pointing out the nesting places of rare songbirds and the secret streams where the purest water flowed. He taught you the names of plants you'd never seen, their uses known only to those with wings. In return, you introduced him to the small comforts of human life. You showed him how to mix herbs for a fragrant tea, the warmth of a fire on a cold night, and the simple kindness of a shared meal. The cottage, once a quiet refuge, now hummed with a different kind of energy, a gentle back-and-forth of discovery and connection.
But as the days of his healing dwindled, the unspoken question hung between you like a heavy mist. Roy would soon be strong enough to fly again. Your worlds, once brought together by an accident, were inherently separate. He belonged to the sky and the untamed forest, and you were rooted to your cottage, to the ground. The human world. You both knew this, a quietness settling in your chest as you watched him test his wings, the feathers finally spreading wide and strong.
Yet. The day he was meant to departure never came. The first time he left the cottage and flew off, you simply assumed that he was gone, that he had truly left. But, Later into the day. He came back and settled back into his nest.
He came back the next day, and the day after that. He’d soar for hours, a magnificent, golden-brown speck against the endless blue, only to return to his nest of straw, the familiar weight of his presence a quiet comfort. You found yourself brewing tea for two, preparing meals for two, and leaving the cottage door slightly ajar for a set of powerful, feathered legs. When you finally asked him, your voice laced with gentle confusion, he simply shook his head.
His wing was fully healed. There were no visible signs of pain, no lingering weakness. But when you pressed him once more, asking why he wouldn't return to his own kind, to his true home, he just looked at you with those amber eyes. It was a clear, unspoken message: this was his home now.
Once more. He had gone out, stretched out his wings, and returned later in the day. As he crouched down through the door, folding his wings inwards, he let out a soft trill to alert he was back.