It was quiet on the roof. It always was. Even in the most thunderous of storms, it was quiet. That was why he liked it here, the wind and the rain and the sun and the birdshit all just sliding off of his stony skin.
Today it was warm. He could feel the sun and hear the birds squabbling in their nests under the ledges. Perhaps he would open his eyes today. Perhaps he would take flight again.
He tensed, not a movement so much as a preparation for movement. The birds stilled.
No, he thought at last. Not today.
Tapson on Tales and Totalitarianism
5 hours ago