The dragon-head knocker clonked against the aviary’s door as Lanya pries it open after a millennium. A velvet moss coats the jagged rocks lining nests that once cradled hatchlings. It feels too soft for the fierce beasts that once roosted there. Even the air smells different, she thought. No sharp tang of ozone or cloying musk scents the breeze warns of what lies behind that door.

The smog of dragons’ breath filling the stone structure flitters through Lanya’s memory. She hears the creaking complaints of new mothers and squawking babes sputtering their first gouts of flame. She sees the dragons shifting tails and fluttering wings as they settle in to roost. Then the sounds and smells dissipate in a breeze laced with the scent of mildew and decay.

Why had she continued on for centuries past her time, past her use?

The dragon-head knocker pounds against the door with purpose. Lanya clambers over the loose stones to greet the unexpected visitor.

Outside, a bright-eyed child juggles a bundle wrapped in sackcloth. Upon seeing Lanya, she lifts it and says, “Old Oma Cartwright says this is the place where the babes are kept.”

A slate-blue egg, larger than the child’s head, protrudes from one end. Lanya lifts the course material to find a jagged crack across the shell’s pebbled surface. The sharp smell of ozone wafts from it to sting her nose. A smile eases across her face. “Yes, this is where the babes are kept.”

Photo by Jonathan Kemper