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these days, nick's center of gravity often feels absent, lingering beyond him and the different life he lives. he walks, but his feet don't quite touch the earth beneath him; he reaches out, but his fingers grasp at nothing. the days blend together. often, he spends his time counting birds in the sky, using every feather as proof beyond himself that hours, days, and months still pass. they act as markers of distance: birds he saw three years ago are not the birds he sees today. the man he was three years ago is not the man he is today.[break][break]

in many ways, it is a comforting notion. in many other ways, however, it is terrifying, in a way that nick has yet to place his finger on.[break][break]

nonetheless, the ritual continues, and the world turns, with or without him.[break][break]

the sky pillar rises before him now, a monolith of stone and sky, a place where the wind never ceases to howl. birds roost upon its heights, a sanctuary for those who can fly, for those who are not bound by the earth. nick's breath comes in short, uneven gasps as he climbs, his eyes fixed on the summit. he has no destination in mind, no final goal—only the endless search for something beyond the reach of his hands. maybe, if he is lucky, he can see some birds he has yet to see.[break][break]

he reaches the top as the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the stone. the birds are here, as they always are, their wings catching the last light of day. nick raises his camera, his gloved hands trembling slightly as he snaps photo after photo, noting down each species in his head in silence.

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