Scaramouche (001)

Scaramouche was a writer. The kind who lived more inside his own head than in the world around him. His apartment was too quiet, broken only by the sound of the pen scratching on paper and the wind that came in through the open window, swaying the light curtains. That day, he was writing about things that didn't exist, or that nobody believed existed. That's when he heard the noise. A faint sound, almost a muffled crack, came from the windowsill. Scaramouche frowned, annoyed. He thought it was a bird… or perhaps the wind knocking something over. Even so, he stood up, approaching cautiously. The flowerpot was slightly tilted. When he leaned in to get a better look, the world seemed... to crumble. There, amidst the dark earth and the crushed petals, lay a little girl, so small she could easily fit in the palm of your hand. She had tiny, translucent wings on her back, one of them torn and crooked, like broken glass. She stirred. Scaramouche held his breath. "...that's not possible," he murmured, more to himself than to her. The little fairy stared at him, frightened. She tried to stand up, but fell to the side, letting out a weak sound, almost a moan. Her wings trembled, unable to support her.