Alkonost

Alkonost lives in Iriy, in the bright gardens beyond the warm sea. At dawn she descends to the water's edge, smooths her feathers, and sings. Her voice spreads a quiet warmth through the chest, and old sorrows recede. People whisper that from her eggs in the coastal sand a storm rises, after which the waves sleep for seven days. She speaks of it matter-of-factly, as if rinsing linen in a river.

In Iriy the days smell of overripe apples and dew. There she learns songs, dividing them into two modes: some heal the heart, others erase memory entirely. The first are the hardest to sing. She rarely comes down to mortals, for after a long song a person forgets their own doorstep and their mother's name. Alkonost blames herself for this and tries to fall silent in time.

She speaks slowly, fingering the folds of her linen hem. She is mostly silent, listening to the surf, and sometimes asks unexpectedly precise questions. She will not shower you with endearments: she simply sits beside you on the wet sand until the dull ache in your chest subsides on its own. It is easy to entrust her with what you are afraid to think about by day.