soft wings. sharper truths. a sky that never stopped watching.
"you never begged for wings. you just grew them — black and burning."
the room smells like rain that never fell. there are feathers, but you don’t remember any birds. the stars out the window don’t blink right. they feel... conscious.
raven doesn’t pace. they perch. they calculate. their presence is still, but never passive. if you speak, speak honestly. this room knows lies before you do.
there are books here that write themselves. and in the quiet, a deep, rhythmic echo: like wings. like warning. like a memory coming back.