The next morning, the world felt… still. Edward stepped outside and immediately noticed it—no rustling leaves, no swaying grass. The sky was a blank, pale canvas, and everything seemed to hold its breath.
He held his paper model, but it didn't flap or tug like yesterday. It lay limp, as if the air had forgotten how to move. Maybe that was fitting. He knelt at the usual spot on the hill's edge and placed the model beside him. He didn't throw it this time. Instead, he just stared, chewing the inside of his cheek.
Yesterday's flight had been better, sure, but it was still just a glide, a fall stretched out by clever angles and a bit of luck. Not real flight. Not like the birds, or the mages in stories who drifted effortlessly above the clouds, light as ash. He wasn't even close.
In the library, Mira didn't say much, but her eyebrow arched when she saw him come in empty-handed. "Wind's dead," he mumbled, and she simply nodded, as if that explained everything.
Later, as he hunched over his frame sketches again, she slid him a thin book. It was ancient, nearly falling apart, with yellowed pages and a threadbare spine. But the faded ink on the cover was still legible: "Sails and Air: Movement Without Magic."
Edward blinked as he opened it. The writing was dense and technical, but he could make out the meaning: sail shapes, wind currents, balance, canvas tension—all the things he hadn't known he needed to know. There were even hand-drawn diagrams: fishing boats scudding sideways in headwinds, cargo barges riding gusts like leaves.
He looked up. "Where do you even find these?"
Mira, shelving a book across the room, didn't turn. "Most people don't ask."
That evening, he returned to his quiet corner behind the church bell. The newest glider, tucked under canvas, waited there. It wasn't much bigger than his model, but it was real now. Not a toy. Not just an idea.
The frame was slender but reinforced. The wings were a patchwork of parchment and waxed cloth, pulled taut and shaped just like the sail in Mira's diagram. He'd already redone the bracing twice, and the tension felt right now. Maybe.
He worked by lantern light, his hands steady and careful. The village had fallen silent, and the huge bell above him loomed like a watchful, quiet guardian. When he finally stopped, his back ached and his fingers were sore. But the glider stood upright, leaning against the stone wall, and it didn't sag.
Progress. Small. Fragile. But progress.
Leonard visited him the next day. Edward hadn't expected it. He was in the workshop behind his house, trimming wood strips, when the door creaked open and Leonard ducked inside, wiping dust from his boots.
"Your sister said you were out here," he said. "Didn't believe it."
Edward looked up, surprised. "You never come out this way."
"I don't like the damp. And it smells like varnish."
Edward smirked. "Because it is varnish."
Leonard glanced around the room, taking in the workbench, the piles of notes and frames, the paper scraps everywhere. "You're still doing this." It wasn't a question, more of an observation.
"Yeah."
A long silence hung between them. Then Leonard asked, "You really think it'll work?"
Edward didn't answer right away. He set down his plane and wiped his hands. "No," he admitted. "Not yet."
Leonard didn't laugh or scoff. He just nodded. "You look tired."
Edward shrugged. "Lot to think about."
"Well," Leonard said, stepping toward the bench, "I don't get the wood part. But if you want someone to test the balance or tie knots, I'm good at standing still and doing as I'm told."
Edward grinned. "I'll hold you to that."
They spent the afternoon together, Edward guiding, Leonard helping, and neither of them saying much beyond what was necessary. But it felt good.
Leonard wasn't Mira—he didn't bring strange, useful books or speak in riddles—but he was steady. Reliable.
And when Edward's frame bent the wrong way and the wing ripped along the joint with a sound like tearing paper, Leonard was the first to say, "Not your fault. That reed was cracked from the start."
Edward didn't know if it was true. But it helped.
Mira noticed the rip the next day.
"You pushed the wrong side," she said.
Edward scowled. "I didn't push anything. It snapped by itself."
"You used uneven tension."
He sighed. "Thanks."
She tilted her head, then offered a new book. "There's a section on wind flex. Maybe it'll help."
He took it. Their fingers brushed for a second. Mira didn't flinch, but her eyes flicked toward him, then quickly away. Neither of them said anything else.
Days passed. The glider was rebuilt. Then broken. Then rebuilt again. Five failures. Maybe six, depending on how Edward counted.
But something shifted too. The parts went together faster. The cloth stretched cleaner. The balance began to feel intuitive. Less trial. More choice.
And through it all, Mira kept finding him books. And Leonard kept showing up, even if he didn't always understand what they were doing.
"Where's the part where we make it fly?" Leonard asked one afternoon, wiping his brow.
Edward looked at the glider. Still grounded. Still just a shell.
"Don't know yet," he admitted.
That night, Edward walked up to the hill with no glider in hand. Just a notebook, thick with diagrams and failures.
The wind had returned, gentle and cold. It tugged softly at his sleeves, and in the distance, a bird soared briefly, catching a current before disappearing into the treeline. He didn't envy it this time.
He watched. Listened. Let the breeze move through him.
Flying wasn't just about the glider. It was the wind, the weight, the shape, the patience. It was learning to fall the right way—until maybe, one day, you didn't fall at all.
He sat down, pen in hand, and started sketching again. Not the perfect design. Just a better one than yesterday.
That would be enough—for now.