The rainwater pooled in the concave curve of the parapet, reflecting the bruised slate sky. You traced the deep grout lines with a clawed finger, the stone cold even through your thick, moss-covered talons. "It's not the flight itself," you whispered, the sound grating against the wet gargoyle's own throat. "It's the landing. The way they settle, like spilled gravel." The therapist nodded, making a small, precise notation on a waterproof slate. You closed your eyes, and as you described the specific, oily coo of the birds, the rainwater immediately surrounding your feet began to vibrate, forming a perfect, hexagonal shield that seemed to repel the very concept of feathered wings. You watched the water ripple, a visible, liquid rejection of the imagined pigeon droppings, a physical barrier against the dread that had calcified into your very being.
damp · uneasy