The string slipped between my fingertips and fluttered away. If I were a child, I would have cried to see my kite mesh into the mottled sky, but the sight seemed strangely tranquil to me, as the string danced in the wind and twirled with the falling leaves. Perhaps the rice paper wings will catch the colours of the clouds and dissolve in the wind and sea. Then each autumn breeze or lapping wave would sing to me my kite’s farewell. In particularly golden sunsets, the sun would paint the skies, and the horizon would resemble the lamplight that flickered behind the paper wings when I held them up to my window for the spirits of the night to see. As the same lamplight dances on my fingers now, a breeze rustles the rice paper on my working table, and they float into the air like dust motes and flutter with my kite in my memories.