Forest of Mischief

Her eyes blink open, already wishing she could stay in bed just a little longer. She used to love watching the morning

. Freya’s particularly chunky cat, Flora, hops onto her bed and nestles into the crook of

hint: it’s ti

s as she flits around her apartment watering the various plants that engulf her small living space. Feeling Flora’s restlessness in her arms, Freya starts to set her down and Flora leaps out of her hands, landing g

eaves cracked for Flora, her small bed, and the even smaller kitchen with one wooden table and chair for eating. Not that she needs much anyways, she is the only

ne streets, admiring the small shops nestled in between the towering buildings. The ancient and new blending into each other, and Freya l

if it's someone she knows. She’s met with a mostly empty street, people milling about not paying her any attention. She continues to glance around, u

city’s most popular breakfast spot. The spot which she is expected to

shooting her a frustrated look. She smiles at each of them as she walks to u

lized why. The man couldn’t be punctual even if his life depended on it. But, Freya learned to accept it. Sometimes relishi

quick memorization skills, convinced the teacher to give Freya access to her personal library. It wasn’t much, but it was more books than Freya ever saw. Most of them were about the

adn’t

s to arrive. This is the latest he’d been in yet, and Freya couldn’t wait to lord it over him. But, as another mid-morning r

ong now on repeat. Just as she’s about to close the small shop for the day to check on h

ut him in the first place when clearly nothing was wrong. He passes by her, barely looking at

, but I had the most peaceful sleep…” he trails off as if part of him is still lingering in whatever dream he had. Freya rais

s when Freya starts to tune out. When he goes into a detailed explanation of his morning. “...and now here I am,” he finishes. Not ev

or the lunch rush to start, Freya opens the book she brought in her bag, hoping she’d have time to catch up on her reading before her classes that start in the

th warm red hair staring at her. He stands for a moment in the doorway before walking toward her. Freya quickly shuts her book and stands up, straightening the small apro

ords coming out a tad c

is face, “Oh, I’m not getting anything.” His eyes survey the small shop before his eyes return to Freya. He gives her a qu

a responds, her eyebrows arch

st wondering if you could tell me your name.” His eyes settle

t or how to explain it, but all she knows is she doesn’t want to give him her name. “I don’t tell

h,” and turns his back to her, sauntering toward the door. Just as he’s about to step out the door, he cuts her a glance, his emerald eye

m exactly how he knows her name. And why, if he does, he asked her about it in the first place. But, as she steps into the bri

words on the page would be secondary in her mind to thinking over the convers

to have many more customers,” Freya

s he nods his head, “I gues

eya says as the door shuts behind her. The sun bright on her face, she heads to her favorite part of the city: the gardens.

y clusters of people taking advantage of the beautiful day. She continues walking, her

the warm earth. The slightly overgrown grass broken up by a small ring of white mushrooms with brown underbellies sprou

e more she tries to focus on the words in front of her, the more her mind wanders to him. Giving up on reading, she flips to her back and stares at the wispy sky

s. As they shut, Freya is whisked into a vivid dream where she stares at herself in an extravagant mirror with a foreign language etched around it. Her dark waves cas

around the once sunny garden