I've always loved the sun, maybe that's why I let it kill me. 

 When I was a child I had no one to play with; my father was too busy inventing, there weren't any other kids around, and my mom... I don't know what happened to her, no one ever told me. 

 I hated to play inside because Dad left his toys everywhere and hated it when I touched them, so I'd go outside with my toy, a bundle of feathers attached to a string, and run in the sun. There were many games that I'd play, like the one where I ran from the clouds, or the one where I'd climb a tree and use my toy to tickle the heads of people walking past to talk to my father. Every day I'd run and play till I was out of energy and then, instead of going back inside, to the drear clanking of my dad creating, I'd lay under the sun and talk to the sun, sometimes he even talked back. 

 The day before we went to that stupid little island I was lying on the grass, tired, staring up at the sun and I asked why I had to go, why I had to leave the little Earth so beautiful that even the gods must be jealous and do you know what the sun said back to me?

 "Everything changes," he whispered in a delicate, sunny voice, like the rays he blessed the world with. I was shocked that he responded. I jumped to my feet and stared at him, but he wasn't there, he was just a big ball of light, far above me, hurting my eyes.

 Today, after years trapped here in a tower closer to the sun, but farther from the grass and the trees and that toy I used to play with.

 Today, years since I heard the words of the sun, years since I last felt him cover my body in his rays.

 Today, he killed me.

 My father made something for someone and that person trapped the two of us in a tower for years because of it. Today my father found a way to free us from the tiny room filled with all of his toys and none of mine. 

 Today he took the feathers of a thousand birds and weaved them, using wax as glue into a set of wings, wings we could use to fly away from the tower we'd been trapped in and towards the patch of Earth where I could run all day long then sleep under the sun. 

 "Be careful," he told me, "You mustn't get too close to the sun or your wings, they'll melt, and you'll fall to your death in the ocean below." I heard what he said, I did, and I planned to listen, but as we flew, as I felt the wind against my face and his rays on my back, I couldn't help but get closer to the beautiful ball up in the sky, so far above me that even hearing one of his words was like a miracle. 

 As I flew, free for the first time in longer than it took for my body to stop growing, all I wanted was to hear that voice again, I wanted to hear every word of wisdom he had ever thought, so I got a bit closer, hoping not to get burnt. 

 I think my father warned me again at some point, but I couldn't hear him, I just kept flying closer and closer to the beautiful sun. The closer I got, the warmer it felt. The warmer it felt, the closer I wanted to get.

 As I got closer the sun began to take shape, more than just a ball, he was a beautiful man, dark gold, and he shone so bright.

 He saw me too, a boy with wax wings, and he reached for me. I reached back, but before I could touch his golden skin, a feather fell and so did I.

 I called out to him, I asked him to save me, but with a sad face all he said was, "I can't."