Harry had naughty and wild locks which framed a face with delicate features and a flat nose. He was tall and thin and had the hands of a pianist with slender and nimble fingers. Nothing exceptional, so far. Just a beautiful boy with bright green eyes.
But in their depth there was a glow, a precious one that was longing for life. They were mirror for hundreds of dreams.
And Harry had wings. For real. Two white beautiful wings with soft feathers.
He looked like an angel while standing in the sunlight, like an eagle while soaring into the blue sky, like Peter Pan while playing with clouds’ sugary softness.
Since he was young, he had always flown higher than anyone else, even higher than Icarus who reached the sun but then fell with his wings burnt. But Harry had never fallen and he seemed to know no limits. When he rose higher than clouds, with the vastness of the earth at his feet and the virgin purity of the sky around him, he could fill his mouth, throat, lungs and his whole being with the sweet taste of freedom. And he was happy because from up there his future seemed to be so uncorrupted, unbound and bright that he could become everything he wanted. That he could be free.
Unfortunately if an happy ending was possible, the story would end here and there would be no point in telling it.
People were jealous of Harry. They whispered malice behind his back and couldn’t resign to his happiness. And this is an example of the worst defects of mankind: to prefer to tear apart the dreams of others rather than trying to reach your own happiness. But, in their favour we have to say that it’s fear who leads them: fear of differences, news and revolutions which drive them to something unknown.
They broke Harry’s beautiful wings to stuck him to the ground. And then he was just like the others: an angel with broken wings is nothing more than a man with his dreams teared apart into a thousand pieces. In his hands there was nothing but a bunch of shattered feathers and a handful of memories of a paradise lost.
But this is not the end of the story yet.
Harry knew that they could have broken his wings, tore apart his dreams, and stuck his feet to the ground, but they could not shatter his soul. They thought they have stolen him freedom and happiness but Harry knew. He knew he would have flown again, that he would have found his way back to the sky’s vastness, that he would have wiped the tears from his eyes and that he would have taken flight again.

Because they enslaved his body, not his soul.