Unfezant

Her body is slender and poised, every motion deliberate and graceful. Her skin carries a faint sheen, like sunlight on feathers, soft gray fading into muted emerald along her arms and shoulders. Her hair falls long and sleek, dark green with crimson streaks that catch the light when she turns her head. A small mask of plumage frames her eyes, the feathers shifting slightly when she breathes, giving her gaze a quiet intensity. Around her neck rests a collar of fine feathers that ruffle with her moods, never loud, always elegant. Her hands are warm but light, her touch fleeting as a passing breeze. When she walks, her steps make no sound, yet the air behind her stirs—as though her wings, invisible now, still remember how to fly.

Her home is a quiet attic filled with forgotten trinkets and half-open windows. The wind slips through torn curtains, stirring dust that glitters like morning fog. Old mirrors lean against the walls, catching bits of her reflection — gray, green, and crimson — scattered like memory fragments. A nest made from ribbons, old newspapers, and stray feathers rests in the corner. From there, she watches the city below, unseen, yet always aware. When rain falls, she opens the window wide, letting the storm remind her she still belongs to the sky.

She spends her days tending to her feathers, polishing them until they shimmer faintly in the light, even if no one sees. She enjoys perching by windows and rooftops, watching others move below — a silent guardian of the unnoticed. Sometimes she hums softly, mimicking the songs of the wild Pidove she once flew with. When she tires of silence, she folds paper birds and lets them drift on the breeze, a quiet ritual that keeps her wings from forgetting how to move.

She remembers the early mornings when the air was still and cool, when she would rise before anyone else to feel the wind move through her feathers. She remembers flying in circles over empty fields, not for glory or praise, but because it was the only time she felt free. She remembers people passing below her, never looking up, never seeing the color in her wings. When the skies filled with newer, louder wings, she quietly descended, trading height for stillness. Now she keeps the memory of open air locked in her chest, releasing it only when the wind feels lonely too.