Painter’s annotation: I try not to keep feathers anymore. But I kept this one. I didn’t mean to—not at first. It remained on the table longer than it should have, like a note left behind after a conversation you weren’t finished having.

He didn’t come for three days.

Not a long absence—not by most birds’ rhythms. But it was long for Élian.

The silence wasn’t heavy, but it was hollow in the way a room feels after something has just flown out of it. The kind of quiet that makes you glance at a window, even when you know it’s closed.

I kept painting, but not him.

I worked on small pieces—shells, onions, a glass paperweight I could never get quite right. I reached for brushes I hadn’t used in a while, tested old pigments, rearranged the flat file drawers.

The portrait sat covered, untouched.

The yellow on the palette dried out the second day. I didn’t mix more.

I told myself I wasn’t waiting.

But on the third morning, I found it.

Tucked beneath the lemon pot. Not hidden. Not displayed. Just… left.

One feather.

At first, I didn’t touch it. I just stood there. The air didn’t shift. Nothing explained its arrival. No dust around it. No disturbance in the soil. Just the feather.

Small. Clean. It curved gently toward one edge, slightly scalloped, soft-bodied with a tight shaft. And brighter than the others he had dropped.

It was unmistakably his.

But there was something else.

It had been placed—not dropped. It rested on a curled birch leaf, as if cradled there. The leaf was brittle, dry, gold-veined. It must’ve come from outside—I hadn’t seen it in the studio before.

I crouched beside the pot and just stared.

I didn’t lift the feather until late that afternoon.

I didn’t know if it was a gift or a message or a warning.

Maybe it was all three.

I laid it gently on the edge of the flat file, near his usual peg. I didn’t name it. I didn’t move it again.

I didn’t expect him to return. But he did.

The next morning, he arrived just after the sun cracked the wall above the window. I heard the soft whir before I saw him. He landed on the peg with ease, as if no time had passed.

He looked once at the spot where I had placed the feather. Then gave a single note. Sharp. Small. Clear.

Not a question. Not a greeting. Just… confirmation.

I whispered, “Thank you.”

I don’t think he heard me. Or maybe he did and chose not to respond.

He flew to the perch near the palette table. Waited.

I unwrapped the canvas. Set the palette. Opened the tube of Indian Yellow without thinking.

We didn’t begin again.

We continued.