Paper Wings

The first time I saw them, the paper wings were scattered across the attic floor like fallen leaves. They were delicate, made from thin parchment, each fold precise and deliberate. I had never noticed them before, even though I had lived in this house my entire life. Something about the wings drew me in, a whisper of movement, a subtle energy that seemed to hum beneath the surface.

I picked one up, feeling the texture, the faint warmth of ink that had bled through centuries. Symbols and tiny sketches adorned each wing, some resembling birds, others strange, abstract patterns that my mind struggled to comprehend. It felt alive. Not in the sense of breathing, but in that electric anticipation that precedes a leap of faith.

Curiosity overtook caution. I held a wing to my chest, closed my eyes, and imagined what it might feel like to take flight. A shiver ran down my spine, and the attic around me blurred slightly, as if the walls themselves were watching. When I opened my eyes, the wings were no longer on the floor. They hovered in the air, shifting gently like autumn leaves caught in a breeze.

That night, sleep eluded me. I kept thinking about the wings, wondering why they had appeared now, why I had noticed them when no one else had. By morning, I had decided: I would try. I strapped the wings to my arms using thin ribbons found in the attic. They felt unnervingly natural, conforming to my shape as if they had been waiting for me all along.

The first jump from the attic window was terrifying. I fell with a sickening lurch, the ground rushing toward me. But then—somehow—the wings caught the wind. I glided, at first awkwardly, then with increasing confidence. The town below shrank, familiar rooftops transformed into a quilt of colors and textures. I was flying. Truly flying, on wings made of paper.

Over the next days, I explored the skies. I learned how to tilt, how to glide silently, how to trust the fragile folds to carry me. The paper wings responded to my thoughts, to my intentions, bending and flexing as needed. Yet, they demanded respect. A careless maneuver could tear them, and with them, my only bridge to this new world.

I soon realized the wings had more than flight in mind. When I held them over water, the surface shimmered and showed glimpses of stories long forgotten—faces of people who had passed, moments frozen in time, emotions that had never found release. Each flight became a journey not just through the sky, but through history, memory, and the hidden threads that bind the living and the departed.

The wings also changed me. I felt lighter, not just physically but emotionally. Burdens I had carried for years seemed to lift as I soared above the rooftops, my heart unchained, my spirit untethered. And yet, each flight reminded me of the fragility of life, the delicate balance between freedom and responsibility, between ambition and humility.

One evening, during a particularly vivid sunset, I spotted another set of paper wings on a nearby roof. They were similar, yet different, adorned with symbols I had never seen. Someone else was meant to find them, someone ready to take their first leap. I felt a kinship with the unknown flyer, knowing that this cycle of discovery and flight would continue long after I returned the wings to the attic.

Eventually, I learned that some journeys cannot be predicted or controlled. They arrive unannounced, fragile as paper, demanding courage and imagination. Those who embrace them find that the world is far larger, far stranger, and far more beautiful than they ever imagined. And so, I fly, carrying stories, memories, and whispers of unseen worlds on wings that should not hold me, yet do.

Every time I land, I hear the faint rustle of parchment, a reminder that adventure is always waiting just beyond the edge, and that courage can transform even the most fragile things into instruments of wonder.