There were days she ran — when running fit beneath her bones. Ink: "Miaow?" Pigeon: "Coo."
She learns a new hunt: coaxing attention, collecting small gifts.
She cannot set it free — and he cannot hide from his own weather. They shelter each other in the only way they can. She never became the hunter of wings. She became their audience — their music. And that, at last, felt like belonging.
