Mistaken for dead, they carried him to a stone room, the room where his brother lay. Seven years since the fall, when feathers had drifted snow-soft, and silver blood pooled mercury-thick on the frozen ground. Measuring the hours by the frequency of the static on the radio, the day by the twining of the vines that grew from the bodies, how long it took for the red flowers to open. When the pollen broke free and drifted up into the night sky, bright motes of dust turning to stars, he would know a year had passed. And so it went.