The Papery Wing

A dry angsana seed lay resting on the speckled floor near the void deck pillars, blown inside by the warm evening breeze. I stepped down from the lift lobby and paused, listening to the crickets chirping softly in the bushes outside. The seed's center was wrapped in a crisp, wavy brown wing made of stiff papery skin. I knelt on the cool terrazzo and nudged its edge with one paw. It spun around in a slow, quiet circle, skimming smoothly across the tile until it brushed against my foot. It felt papery and light beneath my touch, like a tiny letter sent down from the branches.