After the sun had vanished beneath the earth, a chill began to rise from the unseen corners of the night. The wind, infused with a sharp and certain cold, leapt through the dark in swift, uneven strides. It climbed the treetops— and began its siege upon the sky and the soil.

Have you seen the moon? Ask the evening breeze tomorrow. "Of course I have," it'll whisper. "Last night—when your eyes were elsewhere— I blew her right off her path, wrapped her in the rustling arms of the treetops. Now she's drifting freely, light as a secret, going wherever she pleases."

At midnight, the night drowns everything in darkness. Only the winds remain— draped in white ceremonial robes, they become the last flock of birds in the world.

To cross time, the winds shed their feathers and became winged horses. No one has seen them—not directly— but in the faded corridors of time they've already outrun, they've left behind vast hoofprints, breaking through all that once seemed immovable.

Sometimes I wonder: is it joy that people love about Carnival—or the rare permission it grants? For a few days, you’re allowed to become an animal. And everyone claps.

Still, the shape the winds love best to become is that of their oldest, dearest companions—birds.

It seems that in this universe, all things must arc along a parabola— and every climax must sound its most violent note before it collapses.

“Always you foreigners!” she shouted, pointing at spilled paper near the bin. I hadn’t touched it. But I also hadn’t expected the dog, or the sudden fury. My voice came back before my fear did: “Control your dog!”