The fire had been put out two days ago, but the smell still lingered in the valley like a ghost that refused to leave. The air was sharp with burnt grass and ash, and whenever the wind shifted, it carried smoke into the village streets. Children whispered about it, saying the fire was cursed, or that a dragon must have flown low in the night. Adults weren't as fanciful, but they kept their voices low and their doors shut earlier than usual.
Edward had hardly slept since that night.
Not because of the fire itself, though the memory of running the glider down the hill with the glow of flames behind him was still fresh. It was because Ashwing had worked. Not perfectly, not without strain—but it had carried him, lifted him, given him something closer to flight than he had ever dared to dream.
And now, the secret was half out.
The morning sun spread across the square when Edward and Elsie dragged Ashwing's frame into the open. The glider was stripped bare of its canvas for repairs, the wooden ribs and spars exposed like the bones of some skeletal bird.
"You're sure about showing it here?" Elsie asked, puffing with the effort of hauling the tail.
"No," Edward admitted, adjusting his grip on the front spar. "But hiding it's not possible anymore. Half the children saw us running with it that night."
"They thought it was a demon." Elsie smirked.
Edward rolled his eyes. "Better they think it's mine than something from a nightmare."
By the time they set the glider down in the square, a few villagers had already stopped to stare. Old Mr. Tarrow leaned on his cane, squinting as if the frame might suddenly sprout feathers. Two boys carrying buckets dropped them with a splash and scampered closer, wide-eyed.
Leonard arrived moments later, chewing on an apple. "Bold move," he said, circling the glider. "Everyone's going to ask questions."
"Let them," Edward replied, though his throat felt dry. "I need advice—on wood, rope, anything that could make it stronger. I can't do all of this alone."
The villagers gathered slowly, cautious but curious. Edward wiped his palms on his tunic and cleared his throat.
"This," he said, gesturing to the frame, "is a glider. I built it to see if a man could ride the wind like a bird. It's not magic. Just wood, canvas, and patience."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"You'll kill yourself with that thing," someone muttered.
"Waste of good timber," another voice said.
But then a younger man—one of the mill workers—spoke up. "You flew it, didn't you? The night of the fire. I saw you against the flames."
Edward hesitated. Then nodded. "Not far. But far enough."
The words carried a strange weight. Not a boast, not defiance—just fact. And in the silence that followed, Mira stepped forward.
Edward hadn't expected her. She rarely left the library, and seeing her standing there in the daylight, book tucked under one arm, startled him almost more than the fire had.
"It held," she said simply, looking at the glider. "Because he built it right."
That seemed to quiet some of the whispers.
Edward let out the breath he'd been holding. "I need help," he admitted, scanning the crowd. "If anyone knows stronger thread, or lighter wood, or how to seal canvas better—I'll listen."
A long pause. Then, slowly, the same mill worker nodded. "I've got scraps of ashwood—thin, strong. You can take some."
"And I've rope," added a woman from the back. "Not for horses, but fine-braided. It won't snap."
One by one, offers trickled in. Not from everyone, but enough. Enough to make Edward's chest ache with something that wasn't fear anymore.
---
That evening, back at home, Edward found his father in the yard splitting logs.
"You dragged that contraption into the square," his father said without looking up.
Edward braced for anger, but the older man only drove the axe down again, clean through the wood. "Your mother heard the gossip."
Edward swallowed. "I had to show it. I need help to make it better."
Finally, his father straightened. He was not smiling, but there was no harshness in his face, either. "You nearly burned alive running with that thing in the fire. And yet… you brought it home whole. That says something."
Edward's grip tightened on the axe handle he held ready to pass. "You're not angry?"
"I'm worried." His father took the handle from him. "But I see now this isn't just boy's play. You've given it more thought than I expected. If others are willing to help you, I won't stop them."
Edward blinked, caught off guard. "Thank you."
His father nodded once, then added, "But if I see you try leaping off the mill roof, I'll break the wings myself."
Edward laughed, relief loosening the knot in his chest.
---
Later that week, with the villagers' contributions, Edward and his friends worked to rebuild Ashwing in the meadow. Elsie stitched stronger canvas until her fingers blistered. Leonard balanced on ladders, tightening ropes and knots with more care than he ever gave his fishing gear. Mira, quiet but steady, brought shipbuilding texts and diagrams that helped him understand airflow in a way he'd never managed before.
It wasn't easy. Twice the frame snapped while adjusting, forcing them to re-lash it. Once the canvas tore straight down the center when Edward tested a wing curve. Each failure stung. Each one drew mutters from onlookers that maybe the skeptics had been right.
But Edward persisted.
Because now it wasn't only his dream—it was theirs too, woven through with the efforts of friends, family, and even neighbors who'd once doubted.
And when, at last, the wings stretched smooth and strong in the setting sun, the village square filled not with suspicion but with anticipation.
"Next time," Elsie said, hands on her hips, "you're going farther than thirty paces."
Edward grinned, exhausted and exhilarated all at once. "Next time," he agreed, gazing at the glider that gleamed like a promise