Edward didn't expect his father to say much. He usually didn't. But that evening, while Edward sat at the table sketching the new glider frame with the triangular sail adjustments Mira had suggested, his father sat down with a sigh and watched him for a moment.
"You're still at it," he said, not unkindly.
Edward looked up, surprised. "Yeah. This one's smaller. A model."
His father nodded, eyes scanning the mess of sketches and thread. "Not fixing the old one?"
"No point. It's beyond fixing."
His father grunted. "That's something, at least."
Edward waited for a lecture—about wasted time, or how he could be helping more at the workshop—but it didn't come.
"I used to try things too," his father said instead. "Not flying, mind you. Woodcraft. Toys for you and Elsie. Thought I could make them fine enough to sell."
Edward blinked. "You never said."
"Didn't last long. Other work needed doing. But it's good work. What you're doing. I don't understand it, but…"
He let the sentence trail off, then reached across the table and nudged a sketch toward him. "Just be sure your frame doesn't twist at the joint. That'll snap it."
Edward smiled faintly. "I'll check."
His father gave a small nod and stood. "You've got your mother's way of staring at things too long. She always figured things out though. Maybe you will too."
He left the room, and Edward sat still, staring at the half-finished drawing with a strange warmth in his chest.
---
The next morning, the house was unusually busy. Elsie was helping their mother bake, flour smudged on her cheek, and Edward ducked past her to grab a piece of bread before slipping out. She called after him.
"Where are you going?"
"Library!" he shouted back, and she rolled her eyes.
"He's married to that place now," she muttered to their mother, loud enough for him to hear.
He grinned as he stepped outside.
---
At the library, Mira had already left two books on the windowsill where he liked to sit. One was another shipbuilding manual, and the other a farmer's almanac with notes on wind patterns during different seasons.
She didn't say much, as usual, but Edward was used to that. What had changed was how she occasionally stood beside him without being asked, pointing to a diagram or tapping a line of text. She didn't stay long. Just enough to suggest.
Edward had started taking her advice without question. Not because she was always right—though she usually was—but because she had a way of pointing him in directions he hadn't thought to go.
Around noon, the door creaked open and Leonard walked in, hands behind his back, eyes sweeping the room.
"Thought I'd find you here," he said.
Edward looked up. "You never come here."
Leonard shrugged. "Thought I should see where you vanish to every day. Elsie said you'd gone full monk."
Mira looked over briefly, then returned to writing.
Edward gestured to the seat across from him. "Sit. Quietly, though."
Leonard scoffed but sat down. "So, what's all this?" He picked up a sketch. "Looks like a dead bird."
"It's a new glider frame."
Leonard studied the drawing, then looked at Edward. "You really think it'll work?"
Edward hesitated, then nodded. "Eventually."
Leonard tapped the table. "Well. I hope it does. Just don't forget us regular folks when you float off into the clouds."
Edward smiled faintly. "It's not about leaving. It's about seeing how far you can go without falling."
Mira looked up again, meeting Edward's gaze for a moment before returning to her logbook.
Leonard noticed. He raised his eyebrows. "Interesting librarian you've got here."
Edward gave him a warning glance. "She's helping."
"I can see that." Leonard stood, stretching. "Right. I'll leave you to your dusty books and flying sticks. Let me know if you need someone to catch you when you fall."
---
That evening, Edward returned home and helped his father split firewood for the forge. They didn't talk much, but something had changed—an unspoken acknowledgment that Edward's odd pursuit wasn't just foolishness.
Later, Elsie teased him again, but with less bite in her voice.
"You should name that paper bird," she said, nudging the folded model on his shelf.
"I haven't decided yet."
"Well, if it crashes like the last one, I'll call it 'Ground Hugger.'"
Edward snorted. "Thanks for the encouragement."
She grinned. "Anytime."
---
The next day, Edward stood once again on the hill, the paper glider tucked under his arm. The sky was pale blue, the air just breezy enough. He crouched, adjusted the spar, and let it go.
It sailed a little farther this time.
Just a few feet more.
But every inch was something earned.