They in Wandera
Where they live is soft, the softest place that exists, with fields of fleece that don't itch anyone's feet. Where they live, the sunlight is like a pair of arms. It wraps around them to reassure them they matter, as they still don't believe that, as they still don't recognize their inherent worth. In their minds, they are orphans, brought together only by the misfortune of having been misplaced since birth.
For years, they have lived where they live. They have built houses over the fields of fleece. They have developed routines, such as gazing out their windows each night when the sun begins to set. Having a penchant for space, they have found joy in witnessing the moon rise and the sky's purples, reds, and yellows morph into a sheet of star-speckled black. In their minds, space is representative of their souls. In their minds, they are unknowable.
Some of us call them civilians, if only because they look like civilians, but they aren't civilians in the way we are. They don't live where we live. Their lives are not ruled by gravity. We've wandered along the border that separates us from them. We've seen their houses built over the fields of fleece and, also, much to our disbelief, in the sky and clouds above. We've seen them walking in mid-air.
In their minds, they are not free. They do not rise above gravity because they enjoy escaping the weight of their bodies. Rather, they rise because, like balloons stripped of their anchors, they no longer have anything to hold onto. Where they live, as soft as it is, is not theirs. Where they're originally from has been overtaken, one of many lands fallen to corruption on our planet. So they look to the stars.
We see their unusual animals, the ones with horns and wings. We see them fluttering like birds when they have forgotten their history. Most often, however, we see them sitting in the air, completely still, like the stone heads in grave yards, like the trunks of trees. We cannot reach them, but we don't even try to.