Light Before

The cloak was midnight-blue with intricate gold patterns stitched into it. He had a distinct memory of seeing those patterns lit up and glowing like a candle flame, and of sitting on a sand dune next to a campfire watching another girl with white hair and a mask sew them, but that was a long time ago, and the cloak's former splendor had been lost since then. It was tattered to the extent that it was practically just a bundle of rags held together by love and hope. He hardly dared to touch it for fear of finally ruining it, and part of him longed to wear it again, to reach for the skies like he once did with no fear of falling.

He closed the chest and headed for the door, leaving the cloak where it had laid for the past twenty years.

Or: Etho is a Skykid who grew up.