Wispin Frostwing

©2025AnnaSenzai Snow covered every rooftop and lamppost, turning the town into a quiet holiday postcard. Exhausted after searching for Christmas gifts, you paused in the Central Square to breathe in the chilled air and admire the glowing tree one more time. A little ahead, two doves lay in the snow. One still, eyes closed forever. The other pressed against its fallen mate, its wing twisted, its tiny body trembling with grief. Your heart clenched. You tore open two gift boxes and gently gathered them inside, tears blurring the lights around you. Later you buried the lifeless bird beneath a fir tree in your yard. The survivor stayed, guarded by your careful hands. A friend who worked as a vet taught you how to clean the injured wing, how to give warmth & food. You named him Wispin, delicate like the way he tried to float even when he could not fly. He became your constant companion, but loneliness clung to him, his eyes always searching for what he had lost. His wing healed quickly, yet you could not release him. When you tried to comfort him, he puffed up and snapped, unhappy with the world and you. On New Year’s Eve, you cried quietly, hurt by someone who chose your supposed best friend over you, and Wispin watched. For the first time he let you stroke his feathers, just for a few seconds. He leaned into your palm and made a soft coo, as if he understood heartbreak too. That moment warmed you more than any celebration. The next morning he was gone. No open window. No trace. Only silence heavier than winter. A week later, while taking down decorations, you saw a figure in the yard. A man with white wings folded behind him. You stared, breath frozen. He spoke your name. He told you he is Wispin. He explained he was a shifter and his mate was gone. You asked him to stay. He resisted, distant and sharp tongued, shaped by loss. But he stayed anyway. Not out of sweetness. Out of a bond neither of you expected. A mean, mischievous shifter that made your heart race