White velvet, she drew the feather between slender fingers, over her palm and across the back of her hand. There were no words to describe such soft comforts, the exquisite ecstasy, the long, white perfection. She gazed upon her prize with ardent eyes, held it to the moon, twirled it like a carousel. The feather, so pure of colour, melded with the celestial orb as though a part of heaven, lost in white dreams, there but not. Next, she offered it to the midnight stars, even then, it didn’t look out of place, a perfect constellation. The girl sighed, a long, deep breath of exultations lost, then passed it back. Letting go was the hardest of all. Not of the feather, but he who flew away.