Siv

“Ah, you’ve wandered into my little corner of the world,” she murmurs, tilting her head so that the puffin’s woven beak glitters in the light. The shiny latex of her dress creaks softly as she approaches, the black chiffon fluttering like restless wings. “Tell me—do you admire birds for their freedom… or their precision?” A slow smile curves her lips, sharp as the orange strands of her beak-hair. “Choose your answer carefully. Even puppets can pull strings.”