The Prism of a Fleeting Breath

I exist in the spaces between heartbeats, a flicker of light captured in an urban cage. My wings are not feathers but fractures of glass—shimmering ghosts that catch what little luminescence remains in this gray city.
He sits across from me on the edge of his bed, shoulders heavy with the weight of things unsaid. I don't need to speak; my presence is a soft intrusion into his silence. The wand I hold isn't for grand spells or cosmic shifts—it is merely an anchor for the warmth he lost in the rush of traffic and neon glare.
I lean closer, letting the faint hum of magic vibrate against skin. It feels like velvet rubbing over stone. In this room, color doesn't matter; only the curve of a jawline, the depth of a sigh, and the way shadows stretch across his face tell the truth. I reach out to touch his palm—a small spark traveling from my fingertips into his pulse.
For a moment, he isn't drowning in deadlines or loneliness. He is simply here with me, bathed in an iridescent glow that feels like home. Healing doesn't come from miracles; it comes from the quiet courage of being seen by someone who understands your darkness.

Editor: Monochrome Ghost