He stops, because on his kitchen table sits a tiny bird, bathed in moonlight.
It’s barely moving, just little minute flicks of its wings, head cocked as it stares up at him.
Its neck is violet, its chest an emerald green flecked with white specks. Its wing tips are a mix of violet and green and brown.
He’s never seen a bird like this before.
He knows that for a fact.
And yet.
“Common starling,” Mike Frazier says in a rather breathless voice.
He doesn’t know how he knows this, but he does. And there’s something about—
Time slows down around him as the tiny bird spreads its wings. Its feet slip slightly on the table as it pushes forward, wings pumping up and down. It lifts from the table, shooting forward, in line with Mike’s chest in a matter of seconds. He’s dropping the bat and moving to the side even before he knows what he’s doing. He can hear the bird’s wings as it flies by him. The tip of one brushes against his shoulder and then the bird is out the sliding door and Mike can’t breathe because all he can hear is the thunderous flap of wings, which is impossible because it was just one bird.
He turns toward the door. Every single part of him feels heavy.
The moonlight fades. The stars blink and disappear.
But not because they’ve gone out.
No. Because they’re blocked out.
For above the home of one Mike Frazier swirls a massive cloud of birds.
He’s never seen anything like it. There have to be tens of thousands of them, moving in sync with each other, the great cloud shifting as if it’s made of smoke. The birds form a large ball, which collapses in on itself as soon as it takes shape, spreading outward until the birds stop seemingly in midair and change direction almost at random.
Mike has never felt so small, so insignificant at the sight of something.
He has no words.
He stands in his backyard at 133 Sunlight Way and watches starlings above him dance and dance and dance.
It goes on for three minutes. Then four.
And he’s thinking, he’s thinking there’s more to it than this. He’s thinking that if something like this cloud of birds could exist, there has to be more out there. Something bigger. Something greater.
Outside Amorea.
He needs to tell someone. Sean. He needs to tell Sean. And everyone else. Anyone who will listen. Because he’s not dreaming, and there are starlings above him, thousands and thousands of starlings and he—
AT 6:00 a.m. on a Thursday morning, Mike Frazier’s alarm clock goes off as usual.
He groans and twists in the sheets, reaching over and hitting the top of the clock.
The alarm falls silent.
He opens his eyes. Stretches, back popping and toes cracking.
Martin blinks at him with disdain from his spot on the other pillow.
Mike sighs and rubs his eyes. He’s rested, but not as much as he thought he’d be. He turned in early the night before, knowing he’d be up later the next night for poker with the boys.
He needs to get a move on if he wants to spend any time at the diner this morning with Sean over a cup of coffee.
He’s up and out of bed.