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Summary
The change starts in his sixth year, on a Tuesday that’s so otherwise unremarkable that it feels like some shower-hazed distortion of reality, some shift in the world that doesn’t make sense, that can't be real.
But the water cascading over him is hot enough to scald his skin pink, and the fingers tracing along the edge of the feather buried in his back are his fingers, the same he’s had all his life, the ones that have mapped his own body out like the constellations in the sky.
The first feather. A rite of passage, usually, a sign of welcomed maturity. Or so his mother had told him, in those hushed-under-blanket whispers when the world around them shrank down to her bright blue gaze searching his face.
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