This was the place, graying with windows nuanced by stones thrown over almost a hundred years. She had seen the house in many different lights, but it was still a monochrome shade lifted right out of an antiquated moving picture. When she got closer, she could smell the wood, rotted long ago and was soft as pine. It smelled sweet to her, age and ash mingling together. She didn't have to get too close to hear the many mites and insects crawling through every individual plank. The stairs creaked as she walked onto the porch. A kin of rodents had made the underbelly their home and she could hear them scuttling beneath, frightened by the sound of footsteps. The door was always open, supported only by a rusty hinge. The door used to be red. She knew that. "And the walls white, and the roof was… black, I think. Like coal almost." She thought as she entered the dilapidated dwelling. She always imagined the house the same way. It didn't feel right any other way. Any semblance of furniture and décor had been eradicated leaving only stained walls and creaking floor -boards. Even though the mark of life had been far removed, it felt more like a home than anywhere else, to her at least.

She sighed as she reached into her makeshift satchel, pulling out a painted glass tube. A sanquine caricature of a little girl with gold hair stared back at her. She never got tired of studying the gilded vile, it was mesmerizing to say the least, even if it did make her feel like a thief admiring her bounty. After stealing from the feathered guardian, she had become an all-out felon. The world became a small place when you were immortal, but she had managed to keep her distance from the guardians for this long. If she would just come forth and return it, she could restore terms with them, maybe have a few allies, but…"No. Why does she need another? I just want this one." She loved the memories held within, they were like a drug for her. So much happiness was inside, but also something else, something so familiar it was uncomfortable. She couldn't help but cherish those moments as well.

She was a beautiful little girl. Her hair was curled gold and her eyes were a haunting green. Haunting perhaps only for the bearer of her memories now, as it sent a chill up her back. After almost a century of indifference to climate and touch, a tube of teeth made her shiver. Was guilt really all to blame? The young woman had no time to ponder this when a sudden crash arose from upstairs.
She immediatley put the flask back in her satchel and moved to the base of the stairs. An incoherent obscenity was just audible, and fear mingled with anger took hold. She had no reason to be angry, no reason to feel nonexistent blood boil inside . Whoever it was, both of them were trespassing and both had no right to be there. But there was something about their presence that infuriated her. She was being unfair and rash besides, but that didn't stop her from approaching the wane yellow light at the top of the stairs. She heard a gruff voice mumbling obscenities and the rolling of a bottle.

A flickering light creaked from behind a chipping door, bathing the parallel wall in wane yellow. As she crept closer to the door, a sickening odor greeted her. Turning away briefly, she eyed a discarded bottle and grasped the neck in her hands. "What would I do with this?" she thought angrily. If she really wanted scare off the intruder, she had much more efficient ways of doing so.
"Who's in here?!"

The man within jumped with a start, falling out of his seat to the dusty floor. He was an older man, streaks of varying gray highlighting chestnut hair and budding beard. His many layers of clothes were all equally shabby, and a box of cigarettes protruded from one of his pockets. She almost felt guilty for startling him like this.

"Christ, lady. What the hell…" he mumbled as he began to rise. He looked at her now, studying her petite frame and peculiar weapon.
"What are you doing out here?"
"What are you doing out here?" she repeated. She still held the bottle out as if she wielded a sword rather than a container.
"It was cold out and..." he started, but she was the one to finish it.
"You…didn't have anywhere else to go. Right?" He gave a coarse laugh.
"Yeah, something like that. You too, I suppose? You don't mind if I get up do you?"
Not expecting his humble request, she nodded wordlessly.
"Thanks." He staggered as he got to his feet, keeping his eyes on the floor.
"Umm… what are you doing?"
"Looking for my lighter. I dropped it when, well, you kind of just barged in."
"I didn't barge in. I…" What was she saying? Of course she barged in.
"Alright, when you came in here with the intention to chase me out, or at least that's what I assume you wanted to do." He paused, continuing to look for his lost lighter. "Damn, where the hell did it…" As he searched the room, she noticed the small desk littered with papers and the overturned stool, but it was the fresh hole in the wall that caught her eye. "What happened up here?" she asked. The man looked toward the mess. "Oh, that? I was getting frustrated and... well, the wall got the blunt end of it." he said carelessly, returning to his search. She kept looking at him, assuming his frustration was the clamor that had brought her here. "Well, no reason to take it out on lumber." she mumbled, kneeling down beneath the desk. "What are you doing?" he asked, turning to her.
"This is what you wanted, right?" she inquired, rising from the ground.
In her pale hand was a beaten lighter, dull red and rusted at the tip.
"Thank ,sit down if you like." he motioned toward the little stool and walked toward the clouded window. "Did you want a light?"
"No, I quit awhile ago."
"Oh. You don't mind if I..."
"Oh, go ahead."

He chuckled weakly, turning his head as he exhaled vaporous smoke. "I will admit I like the smell though. It's sweet. I think so anyway."He looked at her now with a weak smile. "Aren't you cold? All you're wearing is that dress, and that looks like its seen better days, though I'm not one to critique fashion." He took a long drag while she looked down at herself. Her dress looked like nothing from this era and it was torn and faded at the hem. Why had she always worn this, for as long as she could remember, not that she remembered all that far back. She had always been wandering around in torn clothes, carrying a satchel. But something far away was coming back now. That little girl whose memories brought her so much joy…why did she feel a hand tugging at the hem of her dress?
"Hey are you okay?" She looked up startled, obviously forgetting his presence.
"Y-yeah, I just thought that I… actually it's nothing really. I don't really get cold you see." She stroked her arm quickly and held it out. "No goose bumps and no chills. I told you I don't get cold." He let out another breath, releasing more smoke. "Guess you don't." he said bemused. She brought her arm back to her chest and looked at him with somber wonder.
"Why didn't you ask me my name? Usually that's the first thing people ask."

"That would mean I would have to tell you who I am to know who you are."
"Huh? But I told you a lot about me and you haven't.."
He laughed coarsely. "Yes, you've given me a plethora of knowledge about yourself."
"Well, you know more about me than I know about you."
"I suppose you're right." he sighed. "I know that you used to smoke but quit awhile ago, and you had nowhere else to stay tonight."
"Well, all I know is that you smoke and punch holes in walls." she said breathlessly.
"Sure. And isn't that all you need to know?" He said, putting out his cigarette.
"Do you write or something?"
"I used to."
"Then what's all that?" she asked, looking toward the desk.
"Work." he said gruffly.

Newspaper clippings, handwritten notes on scrap paper, and sheets thick with text made for a very ambiguous line of work, but the gruffness in his voice made her nervous to inquire further. "Well, what kind of work?"
"Personal kind, freelance." he said, remaining gruff. He made his way toward the desk, collecting the scattered papers. He remained silent, his eyes narrowing and mouth forming a tight line. She looked down, trying to think what to say next.
" 't tell me anything then". He looked up at her now. She had risen from the stool and was walking toward the window. He stopped fumbling with the leaflets. It was mad for him to assume she had known anything. Being coarse with her now was probably the last thing he should be doing. They were both in the last place they wanted to be, or so he assumed, and he owed her some courtesy, or at least he assumed.
"The wind is letting up now. Still snowing though. I wonder..." she trailed off.
"What is it?" he asked, trying to determine whether or not she was still upset.
"Nothing, I was just thinking of someone I know."

He took a step closer to her. "My name's Bruce, if you were wondering." She turned to him.
"I'd give you a last name, but I think it's better for both of us if I didn't." he continued. She smiled, extending her hand out. "Bruce-who-smokes-and-punches-holes-in-walls, nice to meet you." He smiled a little stronger this time, and took her hand in his, shaking it gently.
"Tell me then, what do you go by?"

She took her hand from his warm grasp.
"My name is…"
Before she could finish, the visions began anew. It happened every time she came to the house. The pain in her legs and arms seared her skin mercilessly. The room, the man, and her own body were gone. It was distant cry of a child and the searing pain that remained. But now she heard a scream, a gruff scream, near by…
He was on the floor, cigarette nowhere to be seen. She couldn't make out whether fear or wonderment filled his eyes now, but either way he had no intention of approaching her. She realized now what she had done. Shrouded in darkness, reaching parallel corners of the room were the exact things she had tried to conceal, try to control but always failed. Even in the night, she could make out their mangled, beaten outline, so many feathers bent out of place and many patches devoid of any. They had only become uglier with age.
"Wha-What the hell are you?"
She backed herself closer to the window looking away from the man.
"Mira." She whispered.
"What did you say?"
Her battered wings rose up, creating strange shadows on the far wall.
"That's my name, not that you'll remember now. Goodbye, Bruce." she said pensively, backing away from the man.
The feathered attachments flapped in unison, pushing her out the window, leaving the man with broken glass and graying feathers.
He heard a faint swish of air before he was left in silence sans the gentle wind.