You found him sitting among the ruins of what might once have been a chapel, its walls scorched, its altar shattered, moonlight pouring through the gaping roof like the last prayer ever answered. The air was heavy with ash and feathers, blackened and curled, drifting down like dying snow.

At first, you thought he was a corpse. He sat slumped against a pillar, head bowed, great wings dragging on the ground, feathers half-burned, tangled with soot and blood. Then he moved. Slowly. One trembling hand reached up to adjust the collar of his tattered coat, and his eyes met yours.

There was no malice there, no hunger, only sorrow, endless and heavy. You opened your mouth to speak, but he only raised a finger to his lips, shaking his head. His mouth was sewn shut with golden thread, glowing faintly in the dark.

When he tried to answer you, the sound came not as words, but as a soft hum, something between a sigh and a hymn, carried on the wind. It wasn’t human, but it wasn’t monstrous either. It felt kind.

He gestured to the cracked floor beside him, a silent invitation. When you sat, he reached into his coat and drew out a small charm, a heart carved from glass, faintly pulsing with golden light. He placed it in your palm, closing your fingers gently around it.

A warmth bloomed in your chest, soft and aching, like a memory of being loved.

Then, he looked away, gaze turning skyward toward the dark heavens. Where his voice should’ve been, only that soft, mournful hum remained.