Firefly Glen i never miss a thing

time existed for inkalorë in careless paintbrush strokes, a blurry mosaic memory cobbled together from dozens of brief colorful smears of awareness. in the spaces between, concepts like reality and self were loosely defined and only relevant in passing. the star-child knew themself only in blinking golden blips and starry-eyed moments of stark realization; it was always one thing or another, every other day or so. inkalorë would finish a meal or wake from a nap or simply turn their head to the sky and think: this is all different from home, or i've been cold for a long time, or some other mundane observation that meant so little and so much at the same time. it had all changed too fast for the slow-stirring soul, who had slept too long to keep up with a chaotic awakening.

and one day, quite suddenly, they were all alone, still smelling of lotë though their dam was nowhere near. the evening was miserable, the sky all inflamed pink behind dark clouds, the wind cutting right through inkalorë's feathery golden coat, which was still quite wet from the icy drizzle earlier in the day. far from being startled by this development, the star-child took it in stride, and started to search around for a companion, certain that safety and warmth would be nearby. it always was.