When I first came to the city, it took a while to find my wings.

My hopes and dreams I’d packed in a dusty leather backpack, while my sachets of tea I’d tucked in pockets of a tight-fitting leather jacket offered by a human friend of the family.

“It gets cold and rainy in the hills,” they said as they wished me on my way. “Gotta keep your spark lit amongst the big smoke!”

I was glad of the warmth when I arrived, on a frosty day in early spring. My shoulder muscles tensed against their confinement, but I pulled my coat tighter against my scales. I knew all too well the chill of extended wingtips in cold mountain air.

Fumbling with tired fingers, I almost dropped my keys as I let myself into my new shop. It was cool and dark within, but a quick exhalation offered fire to the gathered stovewood.

Flickering light caressed the stacked chairs and dusty tables, but I passed them by to fill the kettle. There would be plenty of time to sweep the floor, to expel the stale air and brighten up the walls.

The tea brewed with languid affection, and at last I hung my coat on the battered old rack.

I sat in the gloom and sipped at my tea, my heart warm with the thought of all the drinks I’d sell, and stretched my wings wide in satisfaction.