When he came out, towel over his shoulder, she stood in front of him like she had something important to say.
They were wings—lopsided, fragile, clearly made by small hands that tried their very best. Cardboard feathers, drawn on with marker. String knotted together in places that would never hold real weight.
“So you won’t get hurt,” she explained, matter-of-fact. “You can wear them when you climb.”
He knelt down, heart tightening in a way no harness ever could. He smiled and thanked her, told her they were perfect, told her she did an amazing job. He didn’t say anything about safety ratings or physics. He didn’t say anything about how wings like that couldn’t stop a fall.
Because that wasn’t the point.
The next morning, before heading to work, he placed the wings gently in his truck. He looped the string over the headrest so they hung behind him, swaying slightly as he drove. They looked out of place among the steel tools and thick gloves, but somehow they belonged there more than anything else.
They stayed there.
On long days when the wind pushed hard against the poles, he’d glance back at them before climbing. When storms rolled in and the lines went down and the work got riskier, they were there, quiet and constant. Coworkers noticed and asked about them, expecting a joke.
He told them the truth.
Some laughed. Some nodded. A few grew quiet.
Over time, someone shared a photo. Someone else shared the story. It spread farther than he ever imagined, touching people who understood danger, and people who understood love, and people who understood both. Thousands saw those cardboard wings and felt something soften inside them.
Because everyone knows protection isn’t just helmets and straps, important as they are. It’s the text you send before a risky job. It’s the photo on the dashboard. It’s the reason you double-check your footing and take an extra second before climbing higher. Continue reading…
