a/n [Five of five. Cinna for Estoma.]
For the moment, the world is cast in a temporary silence, save for the shrill scrawl of the pencil, pressing against the thick paper a tad too hard. The pencil is desperate to work quickly, flawlessly. There has been far too much planning for something to go wrong now. Each stroke is preceded by a soundless breath; each idea leads to a quirk of the lips, an almost-smile. When the lead snaps at the end of a line, the world comes rushing back in impatient muttering and the sun peeking through cracked blinds.
A man lets out a sigh, dropping the pencil from his cramped hand. Changing course, he swivels his chair to the desk behind him. The roll of fabric is already spread out, enveloping the desk like a dark shield. With one quick glance back to his sketch, he grasps the fabric pencil, freshly sharpened, and outlines the pattern of a wing.