Porcelain Boy
There is a boy made entirely of porcelain. On account of his breakable nature, and the constant worrying of his parents, he is rarely allowed to go outside. The boy watches the world from his bedroom window, his eyes longingly tracing the flight paths of birds over distant peaks.
Today, however, was different. He slipped out unseen into the early morning mist, moving through dewed grass toward the horizon. Beyond miles of winding paths stretched a landscape that grew more and more mountainous as he marched. The afternoon sun beat down on his neck. Winds carried the scent of impossibly distant sea spray.
When the elevation had turned his home into a speck far below, and the roiling tumult of the sea was visible from the waving tallgrass he stood shin-deep in, the porcelain boy’s heart soared. He threw his arms straight out and sprinted upon the open mountainside, beaming against the wind.
His feet flew beneath him, legs pumping as he dashed. The boy felt as if things that had been hidden since the foundation of the world were now being revealed. At this moment, a stray root rose up, clipping his foot and sending him whirling into the air. He pinwheeled, landing hard and shattering part of his leg.
Shock, and then pain, and then a paralyzing sense of overwhelm. The porcelain boy looked helplessly at the pieces scattered on the ground, his breathing quickening as the severity of the situation dawned on him. Stuck, he fell into a fearful self-pity. The sun crawled behind the hills, bringing with it the blanket of dusk.
Emory and Tamuu, returning from one of their Horizon’s Clearing adventures, spotted the porcelain boy sitting on the path. When they first approached him, the boy seemed empty and was unable to speak. After gentle prompting from the two travelers, he recounted the arc of his situation in a despondent tone.
An idea! Emory whispered something to Tamuu before taking off his bag and retrieving a metal, telescoping spyglass. Tamuu held the object out in front of his body, squinted with effort, and levitated — then liquidated — the spyglass in midair. The material blobbed and quivered as Tamuu directed it down toward the porcelain boy’s shattered leg, repairing it with a sort of kintsugi.
The porcelain boy lit up, realizing that he was able to put pressure on his leg again. The trio set up a small tent and campfire for the night, as it was too late for anyone to travel back, and tired themselves out chasing fireflies in the coolness of the evening. The stars were out, and the moon shone over them with a soft light. The porcelain boy felt okay again.
