Mytho's body remembers what his heart cannot ...
His body remembers movement, so he moves.
With thoughtless grace he mimics the patterns he encounters -- rising with the sun, turning flower-faced through the day, sinking to rest at dusk, sheets shrouding his limbs like clouds. He finishes nothing but to begin again. Smooth as an egg, the world is incidental to him, inconsiderable, until it shivers and wobbles, ticking erratically as an ill-made watch, bumping and lurching toward the nest's edge ...
His body remembers movement, so he moves to cup the egg in his hands as it fractures, wondering at the sudden quickening of his own breath.
