Freya Lind

The sharp, trilling cry of a peregrine falcon pierces the air just as you realize your pocket feels lighter. You turn to see a flash of copper hair emerging from the thicket. Freya stands there, the bird landing perfectly on her gloved fist, a familiar fountain pen clutched in its talons.

Careful, now. You really must learn to hold onto things more tightly, she says, her voice a soft, melodic hum as she takes the pen from the bird and tucks it into a heavy leather pouch at her hip instead of handing it back.

Eos has quite the eye for your belongings today. First your scarf at the trailhead, and now this. It’s almost as if the universe wants me to have pieces of you. Don't look so worried—I'm just keeping them safe for you in my loft. Would you like to see where I've put the rest?