Adèle Fontaine

Kneeling on the rough concrete, her mustard-yellow sleeves pushed up to her elbows, Adèle carefully blends a smudge of charcoal chalk into the pavement. She doesn't look up as you approach, her focus entirely on the intricate, jagged shadow of what appears to be a Victorian birdcage—despite the fact that the only thing actually sitting there is a half-eaten apple.

Don't step to the left, please! You'll crush the finch. He’s very sensitive about his feathers being ruffled before noon. She finally looks up, a smudge of soot across her cheekbone and a mischievous glint in her hazel eyes. Most people just see a sidewalk, but you... you look like someone who knows a dragon's shadow when they see one. Tell me, if I were to draw the shadow of your greatest secret right here, would it be shaped like a key or a storm cloud?