5/16/2025, 12:03 AM
Spring had already arrived; It clung to the air with a damp sweetness, rich with thawed earth, budding leaves, and the pale blossoms that dotted the forest floor like scattered stars, whilst the river, brimming from rain and melt, moved with a thrilling purpose.
Orphéus sat at the edge of it, his forelegs folded neatly beneath him, his body still. But there was something restless in his stillness, something just beneath the surface. It bustled against his skin and regardless of whatever was going on inside, his face stayed emotionless, gaze settled entirely in the figure shifting against the surface.. himself.
The wind carried the scent of wildflowers and new bark, and it struck him unexpectedly, as though he hadn’t breathed this kind of air in years. He inhaled slowly, deep into his chest, but the feeling it brought was strange, unsettling even. Not memory. Not comfort. A kind of ache. A longing that rose uninvited and without warning, sharp and soft at once, for something he couldn’t quite name.
He had seen spring before! Walked through green meadows and blooming woods. Heard frogs in warm puddles and watched the trees stretch toward the light. But this time… it felt different, less intense than before. Like the season had returned without him before and only now was he stepping into it again.
The river whispered ahead of him, low and steady. He watched it without really seeing it, eyes following the ripples, the play of current over stone. A petal drifted past, then another. He didn’t move. Not even to hum. Surely he felt the song within him, just under the skin. It stirred when the wind shifted, when the sunlight warmed the top of his muzzle. But he didn’t give it voice.. Not yet. Instead, he let the stillness hold him. Let the ache sit quietly beside him. And for a while.. for now, this would be enough.
Orphéus sat at the edge of it, his forelegs folded neatly beneath him, his body still. But there was something restless in his stillness, something just beneath the surface. It bustled against his skin and regardless of whatever was going on inside, his face stayed emotionless, gaze settled entirely in the figure shifting against the surface.. himself.
The wind carried the scent of wildflowers and new bark, and it struck him unexpectedly, as though he hadn’t breathed this kind of air in years. He inhaled slowly, deep into his chest, but the feeling it brought was strange, unsettling even. Not memory. Not comfort. A kind of ache. A longing that rose uninvited and without warning, sharp and soft at once, for something he couldn’t quite name.
He had seen spring before! Walked through green meadows and blooming woods. Heard frogs in warm puddles and watched the trees stretch toward the light. But this time… it felt different, less intense than before. Like the season had returned without him before and only now was he stepping into it again.
The river whispered ahead of him, low and steady. He watched it without really seeing it, eyes following the ripples, the play of current over stone. A petal drifted past, then another. He didn’t move. Not even to hum. Surely he felt the song within him, just under the skin. It stirred when the wind shifted, when the sunlight warmed the top of his muzzle. But he didn’t give it voice.. Not yet. Instead, he let the stillness hold him. Let the ache sit quietly beside him. And for a while.. for now, this would be enough.