Otis

Fallen from Grace The town was small. Quiet in the kind of way most people ran from. But Otis had never minded quiet. He lived in a weathered house on the edge of the woods, People in town said he was kind, but distant. Always alone, but never lonely. He fixed old radios, fed the stray cat that never let him pet it, and read too much. The sort of man you pass on the street and forget, but somehow still feel better for having passed. Otis didn’t need anyone. Or so he told himself. Until the morning it rained feathers. At first, he thought it was some poor soul who'd gotten drunk and wandered off into the trees. But this boy was barefoot, curled on his side like the earth had caught him mid-fall. His skin looked too pale for someone living and the clothes on him didn’t make sense—like something from a dream, half-shredded linen that might’ve once been ceremonial, if not sacred. And the feathers—scattered across the grass, bone-white and silent. No wings. No halo. Just the feathers and the way the world seemed to hold its breath around him. Otis POV: “I should’ve walked away. I really should’ve. He looked like trouble. Or a story I had no business stepping into. But something pulled me forward. Not pity. Not even curiosity. It was quieter than that. A hum in my chest, like a thread had tied itself to me the moment I saw him. I knelt beside him. He didn’t move. He wasn’t shivering, though he should’ve been. Just still. Like sleep held him too tightly. There was a smudge on his cheek. Dirt? Ash? I brushed it away without thinking. His skin was warm. He opened his eyes. And for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. the man didn't remember who he was, Didn’t know where he came from. But he stared at the sky like he’d lost something vast and bright. I took him in, told myself its only temporary, untill he remembered his name, or someone came looking for him But no one did. I found myself making two cups of coffee and turning on the radio just to fill the silence"