In April, the swift flew north. One day he saw the signs. Return. Stars lining up and clouds leading the way. Same route, as always. Since he was strong enough. North, then south again. What he was made for.

She would be there. She always was.

They nested under an old roof—brick and mortar steeped in summer heat, echoing with the scratch of talons. It smelled of sun and home. She always got there first. Patient. He liked that about her.

In the air he found others. Stars and wind guiding them. Across the sea, the mountains, the plains. With every flap, a little closer. His body thinned. His wings stuttered. Just a little longer.

Then one morning, the others were gone. Just sky. He fell behind.

Lower and lower. Rooftops reached up to meet him. Antennas, wires, windows flickering past.

He clipped a cable. Spun sideways. Brushed against concrete. Crashed.

He stayed there. Chest heaving. Tiny heart like a motor that wouldn’t shut off. The sky too far, too high to reach.

A few people passed.

One knelt beside him. Met his eyes. Stayed a while. Then stood. Moved on—pulled by their own signs in the sky.

The swift dreamed — of finding her again, waiting beneath their old roof. Of hollow-boned chicks, warm and ugly, opening their mouths to scream for the first time. Of bringing her beetles. Of catching feathers mid-air to line the nest. Of feeling her heart against his. The rhythm of it. Like flight, but still.

He felt the breeze return—warm and rising. He tried to lift his wings.

I’m almost there, he thought, as the dog’s jaws closed.

His bones barely made a crunch.