We flutter up the stairs. I explain that I wasn’t always a tiny moth man. That I’m cursed. That my girlfriend—

She points out intricate shadow boxes. Pictured boyfriends. Pinned moth men staring dead-eyed into oblivion.

The moth girl pulls my hand.

We fly.

Copyright © by Jason H. Abbott, All Rights Reserved.

Discover more of my Aethereal Musings.

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