The Butterfly’s Wings

Traffic. Whichever way you cut through the city centre, it’s the same—congestion everywhere. Beautiful, in its way. But where is everyone rushing to like this?

I stop a passerby.

“Where’s everyone rushing off to in the middle of the day?”

“Haven’t you heard?” he says. “A butterfly is opening its wings in the square. Have you ever seen one? They’ve been gone from this country for years.”

“I have,” I say. Then pause. “Haven’t I?”

The question lingers, but he is already gone. I’m left standing there, unsure whether I have ever truly seen a butterfly, or whether my fixation with stories has begun to invent memories for me. Butterflies belong near flowers. There are no flowers in the city centre. That’s the first problem. The second is this: flowers are forbidden. So is colour. The centre—like the city, like the state—exists in shades of grey and black.

I take my backpack and head for the square.

If a butterfly is about to open its wings, I want to see it. Not imagined, not borrowed—seen. Lived. Something I can claim as my own.

By the time I arrive, the crowd has thickened. I slip through it as best I can. A man steps aside to let me pass. Just before I reach the centre, I collide with someone.

“Watch it,” I snap.

For a moment, I think—it’s the butterfly.

It is not. Not exactly. It’s a human figure. Naked. Strikingly beautiful. The crowd forms a circle around them. I hesitate. Should I apologise? Step back? The whole scene already feels unreal.

They open their arms and pull me in.

Their eyes—clear, unguarded—hold mine. It has been years since I’ve seen a gaze like that. They study the fear in me and smile.

“Don’t be afraid,” they say, and their voice is warm, almost grounding.

“My wings open only in the presence of love. Of desire. Where a soul is unafraid to remain whole.”

I don’t resist. I let myself be held.

At the base of their spine, faint lines of colour begin to surface—thin, trembling streaks. Then more. They gather, deepen, unfurl. Two vast wings emerge, spreading outward, carrying the full spectrum of colour into the square.

A murmur passes through the crowd, rising, multiplying, spilling into the streets. It travels from mouth to mouth, from doorway to doorway:

“A butterfly. In the square. A butterfly with colour. It’s real.”

They are still holding me when everything shifts.

Hands. Too many of them. They grab, pull, force. Voices rise—sharp, insistent:

“Colour is forbidden.”

“What are you doing?” I shout. “You’ll kill them.”

No one listens. Someone strikes me across the face. Another blow follows. I lose my balance, hit the ground hard. The world tilts.

The scream comes a moment later. It tears through the square—raw, uncontained. And then the wings. They are torn free.

For an instant, everything stills. Then the wings fracture—splintering into thousands, tens of thousands of fragments. Each one takes flight.

Butterflies.

They rise above us, scatter across the city, spill into its streets and neighbourhoods. Colour returns in fragments first, then in waves. From one district to the next, something begins again.

New wings. New flight. Light, where there had been none.

I remain where I fell, in the middle of the square

In my hands, a body—weightless now, emptied.

Love gave rise to the wings. Hatred tore them away. But what remained—what could not be contained—spread.

Sometimes, it finds me again.

Briefly.

Near a flower.

And then it’s gone.