A small girl crawls in an open field. She's hunting, but that's not what she would call it. She would call it collecting. Catching. She's searching, slowly, so as not to disturb the atmosphere, for fairies. Little fairies with stained-glass chitin wings. She doesn't see it yet, but she's approaching one now, a creature lost, desperate to find her way back home before noon. She hears a rustling. She doesn't take note of it immediately. but then she's on alert, and she turns to see her. The girl is small but the fairy is smaller. She could fit into her hand—the girl reaches out with two palms open and the fairy jerks back. Then she's in the air, it's a chase, as the fairy flits up and the girl scrabbles not to lose her to the sky. Almost the fairy makes it before her wing catches on the young giant's fingernail and rips. She's thrown out of the air and is tumbling through the grass and mud. She wills her wings to take her up again, but it's useless, she can't get it right in time. She runs. The motion makes her instantly visible to the girl, who finally finds her in the grass, just when she was going to give up and return empty-handed. She leaps forward and brings her hands over the spot that caught her eye. She breathes heavily. A moment to catch her breath. And to feel her hands, if there is indeed something underneath it. She can't feel anything. Trying not to feel too disappointed, she crouches down with her cheek almost pressing into the ground and lifts her hand up, ever so slightly. Within the cave of her palm is the fairy, shaking silently. The girl smiles wide. Then her face falls. "You're crying," she says, confused. And then, "You're hurt." She removes her hand fully. The tear in her wing catches sunlight and glows white. The girl watches as this light dissipates from the base to the tip, the wing mending itself through heat and energy. The fairy brings her wings close to her body, wary of this human. They regard one another in awe.