The wings were what drew her most, the idea that maybe one day she too could spread her arms and flap away, carried by a strong wind wherever it willed. Or maybe that in itself was actually the biggest draw, the lack of knowing where she would land once she had taken flight. Regardless, the birds that roosted on the roof of her flat for the night were both her friends and her dreams, staying with her for scant pockets of time only to melt away in the rising sun when dawn woke them to fly away once more.

She tried to stroke one once, just to see how the feathers felt against her fingers. It cooed while it slept in a corner that night, its mottled gray wings floating under her fingertips for just a few seconds. But she’d pressed a little too hard perhaps, or made just a little too much noise. And with a squawk, it flew away. There were no more friends that night. Nor for a few more nights after that.

Sleep came later during that time, without the soft cooing of the birds to lull her to sleep. But there was also a certain excitement coursing through her as well, an anticipation that had only grown from that first touch. She swore to herself that she would touch one of them again. Feel the power of their flight first hand, and maybe, just maybe, she could tuck a little of it inside of her and call it her own.

As the sun set before the sixth night without her friends, she tore a piece of the bread she’d saved from dinner into tiny pieces and scattered them over the rough hatch of gravel and cement to entice them back to her.

She stood there on the ledge, a hundred shiny strings tied to her arms and a hundred pairs of tiny wings flapping around her. She looked across to the other rooftop and under toward that empty window without the light, smiling in spite of the reminder. Then she looked down at the darkness below, the darkness above, and finally, the darkness behind her lids. A long, slow blink as she shored up her strength. She took that last step. …and she flew.