They say that deep within forgotten kitchens and rusting workshops, where moonlight slips through cracked rafters and dust gathers like old secrets, a strange flock begins to stir. Born not of feather and bone but of spoons, forks, and tarnished silver, the Gloomwing Aviary awakens when the nights turn longest.
Each bird in the Aviary carries a memory in its metal — the echo of family dinners long past, the ghost of clattering utensils, the faintest whisper of hands that once held them. When these remnants are abandoned to time, the winter wind shapes them into something new: winged creatures that shimmer in dull silver and glint with quiet intelligence.
The flock moves silently, save for the faint chiming of cutlery wings brushing the air. Some say they travel between worlds, delivering messages for souls who can no longer speak. Others believe they guard the threshold between the mundane and the magical, perching on spoon branches and watching over those who still honor transformation.
To spot a member of the Gloomwing Aviary is considered a sign — that light can be forged from what is discarded, and beauty can rise from whatever the world has deemed broken.
Each one is a small miracle of rebirth.
Together, they are a whispered chorus of resilience.
Christine Rose 