The model stayed.
Edward looked at the paper-winged creature on the table. It was rough—thread, parchment, splinters of shaved wood—but it hadn't dropped. Not yet.
He tightened a string, and then left it alone. His fingertips were tacky with glue. The parchment wings drooped ever so slightly at the tips, but the spars maintained shape, and the joints had not collapsed. He leaned back and slowly let out a breath.
Without saying a word, Mira placed a book next to him. She didn't wait; instead, she turned and went round the shelves, her steps quiet as ever.
He opened it. On Wind and Structure: Essays from the Coast.
"Thanks," he said, although she wasn't in earshot already.
She did not answer, but his ears caught the scraping of the chair as she sat.
By then, they had settled into a habit. Edward showed up early, shopped without permission, then staked his claim on the window corner. Mira put up with him. Occasionally she'd cast him a look when she thought he wasn't paying attention. Occasionally she'd leave books that appeared useful. Old account books. Technical reports. Abandoned manuals on vessels and sails.
He never caught her opening any of them herself. Just observed, browsed, and continued.
Sometimes he caught her looking. Only fleetingly—while he was turning a page or re-sketching a sketch—and then she'd spin hastily back to her desk.
He didn't mind. He was starting to enjoy her silence.
---
He went to the field once during that week. The old glider still hung there, mangled and useless, its frame contorted like withered reeds after a flood.
He didn't touch it.
Instead, he sat on grass and watched the wind pass through the blade tallness. The way they leaned, bent, bucked. The way the world breathed out.
It was still there. The sun heated his arms, and the wind chilled his neck. Birds swooped away overhead. He shut his eyes and listened.
One of the rear fasteners had broken off in the crash. He'd discovered the fragment on the ground by the tail of the glider a few days previously. The tension had been too high on the back hinges. Too much pull, not enough spread. He hadn't weighted the frame properly. But he was improving.
At the library, he attached a second brace to the small glider. A thin shred of dried reed, tied on with waxed cord. It was tightened more than the first. He touched the wing gently with his fingers—it warped, but did not buckle.
He made notes in charcoal on the new points of stress and scribbled a few comments along the frame. Then he leaned forward, peering at the curves of the parchment.
A soft knock sounded near his elbow. Mira stood beside him again, a crumpled paper in her hand.
"What's this?" he said.
She didn't say anything, just pointed toward the paper and left.
He opened it up.
It was a drawing. A triangular border with lines along the sides—measurements, spaces of equilibrium, remarks on lift. A blueprint.
The handwriting was not his.
Edward gazed at it for a long time. Then looked in the direction of the desk.
Mira was writing once more, her head down. As if nothing had happened.
He glanced at the drawing again. The lines were unflinching. Not precise, but meticulous. The notes were sparse but helpful.
It wasn't only considerate. It was practical. Perceptive.
---
Taani would have been so proud.
He hung about the shelves afterwards that afternoon, pulling out books he didn't need just to kill time. And when at last the library was empty and sunlight streamed in to throw long shadows across the stone floor, he returned to her desk.
"Did you do that?" he asked, setting the sketch down beside her ledger.
She nodded curtly, not lifting her eyes.
"Where'd you learn it?"
"Old maps. Shipbuilders."
He nodded slowly. "Huh."
He paused for a second. "It's nice. Better than mine."
"No," she said simply. "Just tidier."
He smiled. "Well, thanks anyway."
Mira didn't reply. But when he turned to leave, she said, "Try folding the front spar. You'll get more lift in wind."
He stopped, surprised.
"I will."
---
That evening, Edward tested the model again on the hill.
He adjusted—folding the spar just a little bit. A new bend in the paper wing. The wind was consistent. He crouched, let go.
The glider dipped, caught, and flew on ahead—longer than yesterday. It swooped down and sat softly.
He laughed. A gentle, surprised sound.
A little farther than yesterday in distance. But somehow different.
Real.
---
reeree
The following day, Edward took a new roll of parchment to the library. He sat earlier than normal and set about drawing a new design—wider wings, tighter hinges. As he drew, Mira walked behind him once or twice, glancing at the sketch without stopping.
By mid-afternoon, she brought two additional books. One was a series of merchant sailing journals. The other was about avian bone structure.
He gazed up, taken aback. "Birds now?"
"Light frames. Stable wings," she replied.
"Intelligent," he said.
He did not voice it, but she was the sole one assisting him anymore. Elsie had resumed her normal pattern. The hill boys had not asked a second time. Even Leonard was occupied in the shop.
Just Edward and the books—and Mira.
And somehow, that was sufficient.
---
The next test flight did not fare so well.
He'd employed a different reed for the frame—one that broke when squeezed. The glider took off, tipped left, and plummeted into the hill.
He picked it up slowly, scowling at the cracked spar.
Failure.
But not the sort that caused him to quit. Just the sort that caused him to ponder.
In the library later, he scribbled down a brief message and left it on Mira's desk: "Need something tougher than reed. Perhaps bamboo?"
When he came back the following day, there was already a book waiting.
Materials of the Southlands: Resilience and Resilience in Harsh Winds.
She'd underlined a chapter on palm-fiber frames.
---
It rained one afternoon.
The streets outside were grey and slippery, and the library smelled of parchment rather than books. Edward lingered longer that day, attempting to make sense of how birds adapted mid-flight. Mira visited once, sat next to him, then gestured to a diagram.
"Look at their tails," she explained. "It's balance. Not velocity."
He looked up. "So I should construct one?"
She nodded.
By evening, he had a new drawing in front of him.
A tail rudder.
It wouldn't allow him to fly. Not yet. But it might allow him to remain upright.
And that was something.
---
Three days later, the wind came back.
Edward carried the new model—a frame braced with palm-fiber rods, with parchment wings and a stitched-on tail rudder—up the hill.
He took a deep breath. Steady gusts. Cool air. Open sky.
He crouched low, the model between his hands. Then released.
It soared.
Not far. Not fast. But smooth. Steady.
He watched it arc forward, catch the wind, and float a few feet farther than before.
It landed gently.
He stood there, wind brushing through his hair, smiling quietly.
Then, for the first time in days, he laughed.
It was still gliding. Still earthbound. But it was progress.
And progress, right now, felt like flying.
---
Back in the village, as the sun fell behind the rooftops, Edward was moving slower, thinking harder. Not merely about wings or frames or parchment—but about Mira.
He recalled how she had regarded the diagram, the soft way she'd indicated, the stoic silences she provided in lieu of commendation.
She needn't have assisted. But she did.
And perhaps that, too, was a little like lift.
He came home that evening and tucked the glider gently under the bench near his window.
Tomorrow, he'd try again.
And the next day.
And one day—perhaps not soon, but someday—he'd construct one that stayed aloft.
For now, however, gliding would have to suffice.