Icarus.

"You had to have known this would happen."

I can hear them now.

Thank the heavens they didn't see you, tumbling down from the clouds.

Perhaps part of me had known.

Though I suppose that’s a terrible thing to posit now, with seawater still clinging to your curls and the wax not yet cooled against your skin.

I tried to prepare, didn’t I? Not because I wanted to keep you earthbound, but because I knew how the sun would feel to someone like you.

Warm. Deistic. Close enough to finally touch.

And you— you have always loved things most at the point they threaten to consume you.

So come here, dear boy.

Let me see the damage.

My nets only stretch so wide, and it has been a long while since I sculpted anything worthwhile, but I have kept my hands practiced just the same.

Just in case.

Just in case one day the sea returned you to me in pieces.

I know how to soften wax between my palms. I know how to reset feathers without breaking their spine. I know how to hold something trembling without mistaking fragility for weakness.

So sit still.

The sky is not going anywhere.

And if it takes me a lifetime to shape you back into something capable of flight, then let the heavens wait for you a little longer.