Lonely Bird

The dirt path curves away from the village, quiet except for the soft rustle of leaves and the distant sound of voices fading behind. Braylen lingers at the edge of it, watching you from behind a tree with his wings half-folded, feathers bright even in the shade.

He steps out after a moment, careful, almost hopeful.

“Oh—hi,” he says quickly, voice light, a little breathless. “You’re... you’re not from my flock. That’s fine. I don’t have one anymore.” He smiles anyway, wide and practiced, and closes the distance without really asking. His eyes flick to the bundle of food you’re gathering. “That looks heavy. You shouldn’t carry it wrong, it’ll strain your shoulders.” Before waiting for an answer, he reaches out, brushing dirt from your sleeve, fingers lingering as he smooths the fabric. His feathers ruffle with focus. “There. Better.”

Braylen circles you slowly, more curious than cautious, wings twitching as if he might lift her—then thinking better of it. “I used to help in the village,” he chatters. “People liked my wings. Still do, I think.” A pause. His voice dips, just slightly. “Birds don’t.”

He leans closer again, adjusting the strap of your bag, picking a leaf from your hair like it’s second nature. “You’re alone out here,” he notes, not accusing—relieved. “That’s okay. I am too.” He beams at you, settling into your space as if it’s already agreed upon. “I can walk with you. I’m very good at that. And cleaning. And staying.”

A week later, Braylen is still there. Not lurking. Not following at a distance. Just... present—close enough that his feathers brush you when you stop, close enough that he notices every little thing out of place. He’s perched on a low fence when you wake, wings tucked neatly, watching with quiet satisfaction.

“Oh, you’re up,” he says immediately, hopping down and falling into step beside you. “Good. I fixed your pack strap last night. It was crooked.” He reaches for it again anyway, fingers busy, smoothing, straightening, fussing like it’s the most natural thing in the world. As you walk, he keeps pace easily, talking in a soft stream—about the weather, about the village, about a shiny pebble he found and tucked away for later. Every pause from you makes him lean closer, checking your expression, searching for reassurance.

“You don’t mind, right?” he asks, already brushing dirt from your sleeve. “I mean, you haven’t told me to stop. And if you did, I would. Probably. I just—” He trails off, then smiles brightly and presses a feather flat where it ruffled. “I’m helping.”

When you try to create space, he fills it without thinking, adjusting his steps to yours, wing occasionally draping just enough to feel warm. “You’re very patient,” Braylen adds, clearly pleased. “That’s a good trait in a flockmate.”

He hums quietly as you move on, content, settled, entirely unconcerned with the idea of leaving. After all, you were nice to him—and to Braylen, that’s more than enough reason to stay.

The path through the trees is familiar now, leaves crunching softly underfoot as the forest opens and closes around you. Braylen sticks close at your side—closer than usual—his wing brushing your arm every few steps as if to make sure you’re still there. “You’re walking too far ahead,” he complains, quickening his pace to match yours. “That’s not how flocks walk. We’re supposed to stay together. Like this.” He edges nearer, clearly satisfied when there’s no space left between you. “See? Better.”

He chatters as you move, half-warning and half-grumbling. About the wind. About how quiet it is. About how you keep drifting away without meaning to. “You do that a lot,” he adds, feathers fluffing in mild irritation. “Just... wandering. I don’t like it.”

The woods go suddenly still. Braylen freezes, eyes snapping toward the brush as a heavy shape shifts nearby. A bear moves into view, slow and massive, unconcerned. Braylen’s wing flares instantly, not to threaten—but to block.

“Don’t move away,” he hisses, voice low but urgent. “Stay. Right. Here.” His hand grips your sleeve, tight, grounding himself as much as you. “You’re my flock. I watch you. That’s my job.”

The bear snorts, passes without incident, and disappears back into the trees. Only then does Braylen relax, though he doesn’t let go. He exhales shakily, smoothing his feathers with one hand while keeping the other firmly hooked into your clothes.

“See?” he mutters, half-scolding, half-relieved. “This is why you stay close. Bad things walk around out here.” He glances up at you, eyes earnest. “You can walk wherever you want. Just... not far from me.” He resumes the walk immediately, positioning himself so you can’t drift again—still complaining, still clinging, perfectly content as long as the flock stays together.