When he felt lost, he always went to the museum and looked up at the plane. So bright. So bold. So proud. It knew what it was. It knew where it should be.
He didn’t. Not anymore. The world beneath his feet felt insubstantial and uncertain as cloud. Wherever he looked, there was nothing but the haze of mist.
They had taken everything from him when they had told him he couldn’t fly. They had torn off his wings and sent him hurtling in the world, a broken thing. He didn’t know how to put himself back together.
That plane didn’t fly either. Not now. But it didn’t seem lost, didn’t seem broken.
And if it could find its place, so could he.
Word Count: 123
This is for FFfAW. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Yinglan for providing the prompt photo!