Superhero

Chrono‑Strike

Sera has painted a blue bird inside your lunch tin. Its wings are absurdly small. The paint is dry enough to touch, though you keep your thumb away from it as if the bird might be frightened. You know that when she first showed you, last Thursday, you laughed so hard you dropped a sandwich. You know she said every courier deserved a passenger. There is a photograph of mustard on your coat. You have no memory of the laugh, the sandwich falling, or the way her face changed when you understood the joke.