Wings of Fire

Daniel first notices the wings on a quiet Tuesday, in the reflection of a dark window. They rise from his back in slow, flickering arcs—made not of feathers, but of fire. No one else seems to see them. The world continues as if nothing has changed, as if he is still the same person he was before.

At first, he hides them. He avoids mirrors. He stops answering calls. He waits for them to disappear.

But the wings don’t fade. They grow stronger.

They burn brightest in moments he doesn’t expect—when someone is hurt, when someone is alone, when someone is about to give up. Slowly, Daniel begins to realize the wings did not appear to destroy him, but to reveal something he had spent his life trying to ignore.

They came from everything he survived.

And the more he accepts them, the less afraid he becomes—not of the fire, but of the person he is becoming because of it.