there is something lost in this world, soma had come to recognize. hope sizzles out like wind against a barely fanning flame, families thin like threads too frayed to stay together. even her feathers, once beautifully hued, had now rotted into bones and torn feathers. she had finally brought herself to bury them just days before. this world, this place—it was not for her. it did not grow like rikkaruohot in her heart, but had darkened it. wilted it.

the wings upon her back were missed, like it was a piece of her that had been torn—her own wings, now just stumps. she could not fly, and neither could she dream. this world was a cruel thing, that. taking, suffocating, breaking. the days bled together—the sun, the night, the sun, the night. she had not seen many birds of her kind, had not deigned to replace the wings anew. her own lifequest had not been completed, and such treasury had not been afforded.

so with a weeping soul, soma had waited. survived. found herself living upon overripe berries and scraps left behind. never birds, she knew, never them. she slept amidst the carrion, helplessly finding whatever warmth the dead could offer. only one soul had seen her, only one soul had spoken.

she wondered of him then.