I am only a bird. They think birds don’t understand the affairs of the heart. But I tell you, there are mornings so drenched in secrets which are not meant for the storybooks, that even the sky turns its face away. A goldfinch sees many things from his perch—things that would shrivel the innocence of daisies. That morning was different. The castle stood as it always had: indifferent, stately—its single spire cleaving the gauze of a pearl-colored sky. A bell in the tower rang

Close your eyes. You are sitting before a table—a real table, not the imagined one. There is fruit here: dewy strawberries still warm from the sun, grapes, a gleaming crisp apple. A slice of cake, rich with layers of raspberry cream, tilts delicately. A pale green pitcher anchors it all—classical in shape, curved like the neck of a swan, a vessel fit for myth. These are real. Tangible. You could reach out and touch them. But wait. You press a candle into a cupcake’s swirl of