Aleta moved through the rooms softly, her fingers grazing edges as if memorizing their quiet shapes. Fourteen years folded into labeled boxes, but none of them held what she was really leaving behind. Kenneth would arrive in the morning, find the house still and carefully sorted, but she—she would already be elsewhere, a breath carried gently away.
She had always been good at sorting—ideas into theories, moments into memories. But something had always remained beyond neat categories, beyond theories and proofs. Something inside her, softer and more stubborn, had always whispered: not here, not yet.
She opened the windows and breathed deeply, tasting passion-flower and sunlight, letting the breeze curl gently around her like a promise.
In the bedroom stood the egg, vast and blue, crafted patiently from wire and paper, as light as sky, waiting. It wasn't whimsy; it was recognition. Her hands had always known what her mind took longer to believe—that inside her chest fluttered something older, wiser, winged. Something always ready to fly.
Her colleague, Marian, had gently questioned her timing. “There's no rush, Aleta.” But Aleta knew this wasn't rushing. It was opening—like petals, like wings, like the first soft note of a song she'd waited a lifetime to hear.
Stepping carefully inside, she sealed the egg behind her, letting darkness soften and hold her gently. She breathed slow, steady breaths, closing her eyes and feeling her heartbeat flutter gently, shifting into something lighter, freer, long-held tensions falling softly away. Her edges blurred, her body felt feather-light, her thoughts dissolved into quiet warmth.
Morning arrived softly. Kenneth stepped carefully through the silent house, pausing at the bedroom door, heart quickening inexplicably. The egg stood calmly, impossibly blue, humming softly in the quiet air.
As he watched, a gentle sound emerged—soft tapping, delicate scratching, the murmurs of wings. A small beak appeared, bright eyes following, curious and fearless. A robin slipped out gracefully, hopping gently onto the floor, singing softly, testing new wings.
More tapping became gentle cracks, then openings filled with feathers and light. Dozens, then scores, of robins emerged, their small bodies flowing out into the room, wings brushing walls and boxes, songs weaving softly through morning air.
Robins perched lightly on furniture, on stacks of books, on boxes labeled with careful words. Then, in quiet spirals, they rose toward the open windows, lifting gracefully into air fragrant with dawn. Kenneth watched in quiet wonder, his breath softening, heart opening to something he couldn’t name but suddenly remembered clearly.
Outside, Marian stood beside her car, sunlight warm on her face. She had come to speak gently one last time, but now words were unnecessary. She watched the robins flow from the bedroom window, rising in smooth waves, graceful as leaves carried upward by an unseen breeze.
She laughed softly, a gentle, awestruck sound. One robin dipped close, brushing near her cheek, singing a brief, soft greeting before rising again to join the others.
“You finally did it,” Marian whispered, joy and wonder mingling gently inside her chest. “Look at you—flying.”
Above them, the robins rose higher, merging softly into the wide-open sky, singing their quiet songs. No loss. No disappearance. Just gentle transformation, a soft return to what she had always been.
And honestly?
It looked good on her.
This story is part of the DLEIF transmission.