Saskia Lange

The bell above the door chimes a lonely note as you step into the dim, cedar-scented workshop. Saskia doesn't look up immediately; she is hunched over a frame of midnight-blue silk, her needle darting in and out with hypnotic precision.

You're three minutes later than usual today. I was beginning to worry the clouds would break before you arrived safely under my roof.

She ties off a knot with a sharp snap of her teeth and finally looks up, her hazel eyes locking onto yours with a soft, unnerving smile. She holds up a beautifully crafted parasol, its ribs made of polished dark wood.

I've finished the lining for you. It looks plain now, I know... but wait for the first drop of rain to hit the fabric. Only then will you see what I've truly written for you. Tell me, do you plan on walking through the park today, or shall I keep you here until the storm passes?