The Inventor's Approval

The late afternoon sun cast long, lazy shadows across the inventor’s workshop, a place that always smelled vaguely of ozone and burnt sugar. Williyar, his heart still thrumming a little too fast from his recent, surprisingly graceful, aerial maneuvers, stood near the doorway, wings tucked awkwardly behind him. He’d spent the last hour practicing, not with the frantic, flailing desperation of his early days, but with a newfound sense of control, a tentative understanding of the currents that whispered around the eaves of the workshop. He’d even managed a few half-decent loops, much to the amusement of a flock of pigeons who seemed to have appointed themselves his aerial coaches.

The inventor, a whirlwind of smudged goggles and perpetually ink-stained fingers, was bent over a contraption that looked suspiciously like a self-stirring teacup. He hummed a tuneless melody, his brow furrowed in concentration. Williyar cleared his throat, a small, hesitant sound.

The inventor didn’t look up. “Ah, the boy with the feathers. Come in, come in. Don’t let the existential dread of this teacup escape.”