He wakes before the sky turns.
Not because he must.
Because he always does.

The air is still.
His room is colder than memory.
The light doesn't reach the corners.

He sits up slowly.
Bones stiff.
Not old. Just tired.

His wings ache sometimes.
Not from use.
From disuse.

He doesn't stretch them anymore.
He doesn't need to.
Nowhere to go.

His name has power.
But he rarely hears it.
It's lost in the dust of days.

He moves through the room like smoke.
Like he's not really here.
Not really anywhere.

Breakfast is a ritual.
He eats little.
Enough to stay. Not enough to feel.

He watches the birds from his window.
They flutter. Sing.
He listens. But never replies.

His hands are clean.
Too clean.
No warmth held in too long.

He walks outside sometimes.
Just far enough.
Just to remember gravity.

Strangers pass.
He watches their eyes.
They don't see the wings.

Maybe they're gone.
Maybe they never were.
But his back still feels heavy.

He doesn't speak much.
He's fluent in silence.
It answers less, but hurts less.

At night, he stays awake.
Not afraid.
Just... suspended.

His dreams are white.
No sound.
No touch.

He forgets what warmth feels like.
But he misses it.
Even if he can't name it.

Still, he breathes.
Still, he stays.
Still, the world turns.

And he—
He waits.