Borrowed Wings

On the night of her twelfth birthday, Mira locked her bedroom door, took a deep breath, and waited.

The tingling started in her shoulder blades first, a sensation like static electricity beneath her skin. Then came the stretching, the unbearable itching, the pulling—until, with a flutter of feathers, her wings unfolded in the moonlight.

They were delicate, almost translucent, veined with silver like frost on a windowpane. She ran her fingers along the feathers, the same way she had every birthday before this, marvelling at them. But she had never dared to use them.

But tonight was different. Tonight, she was done waiting.

She pressed her palms against the windowsill and hoisted herself up. The village was quiet, roofs bathed in silver, the lake beyond glistening like liquid glass.

She stepped off the ledge.

For a moment, she fell—panic surging through her—before instinct took over. Her wings caught the wind, lifting her, carrying her higher, higher, until the village became a scattering of candlelit windows.

Mira soared.

She dipped low over the rooftops, skimmed her fingers through the treetops, let the night air rush against her skin. She laughed, wild and breathless, tasting freedom in the wind.

Then, suddenly, a sharp tug between her shoulders. Her wings trembled. Feathers loosened, drifting away like falling snow. Her body seemed heavier. She gasped, trying to keep herself aloft.

She spiralled downward.

The lake rushed towards her. But just as she braced for impact, something—someone—caught her.

She landed not in water, but in warm, steady arms.

Blinking in shock, Mira looked up. A boy, no older than she was, held her effortlessly, hovering in the air. His wings, large and dark, glistened in the moonlight.

“You shouldn’t have done that so soon,” he said, but there was no anger in his voice.

“They’re not mine, are they?”

He shook his head. “No. But that doesn’t mean you can’t borrow them.”

“What do you mean?”

The boy smiled, lifting her higher, back into the open sky. “You are meant to have them only on special days.”

His grip loosened, but this time, Mira didn’t fall.

The wind lifted her, cradled her, as if recognising her now. Her wings, although borrowed, felt lighter, stronger—hers. Truly hers, for now.

She stretched her arms, tilted into the breeze, and soared.

Below, the lake rippled in silver patterns. Above, the stars shone brighter than ever. And beside her, the boy flew.

“Come on,” he said. “Race you to the clouds.”

Mira grinned—and flew faster.