Piloncilus was cold and still under the box when Maj woke. The trauma from the wounds and the beginnings of infection had been too much for his undeveloped body. He had died in his sleep, a creature that valued every second in Lowerwind. But she knew that he was now in a better place, his true homeland, where he belonged.

  Maj tells me that the dream was real to some degree, a vision of sorts. She said that only Piloncilus would have thought of the things he had said and done in the dream, that it was really him and his perfect goodbye.

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  She showed me where she buried his little body, a spot near the base of the tree that had the brightest autumn leaves on the day it had happened. Part of me wonders if I would have found a rat-bird skeleton had I dug there. I didn’t and won’t for obvious reasons. Besides, by now all traces would be gone.

  This tale became true when we were children in pre-war Tufaltha. Now, here in post-war, we’re both aging women. In a few years we’ll both see Piloncilus, and in a short two thousand years after that, we’ll be taking opinicus rides around the Upperwind.

  And there will be no end...

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