When I woke up, my first thought was:
"Why do I smell so strongly of onions?"
My second thought was cut short by the realization that I was hanging upside-down, halfway down a chimney, clutching a loaf of pilfered bread in one hand and a glinting spoon clenched between my teeth.
"Oi! She's stuck again!" someone shouted from below.
I squirmed. My boots kicked loose a flurry of soot, which burst into the air like a panicked flock of pigeons. With a final, undignified grunt, I tumbled out of the fireplace and landed in a heap on a threadbare rug—bread miraculously intact.
Two rough-looking boys and a crotchety parrot stood over me, unimpressed.
"That's the fifth chimney this week," muttered the older boy, shaking his head. "You've got the brains of a baked turnip, Thistle."
Thistle?
I sat up slowly, brushing cinders off an oversized coat dotted with seventeen mismatched buttons. My hands were wrapped in fingerless gloves. My satchel—oddly heavy—was brimming with spoons. My head throbbed. My memories were like pudding.
Runny pudding.
"Why did you call me Thistle?" I asked, dazed.
"Because it's your name, genius," said the parrot.
I blinked at the bird. The bird blinked back. Then, with great theatricality, it squawked, "Kettle-snatcher! Sock-thief! Disgrace to chimney criminals everywhere!"
That was when I realized something was very wrong.
I didn't know who I was. Not before this moment. Not how I'd gotten here. Just fragments—burning light, laughter, something about a swan? But it all vanished like breath on a mirror.
The hideout, it turned out, was tucked beneath a dilapidated pastry shop that always smelled like cinnamon and what-ifs. My profession, according to the boys, was urban acquisition specialist—which, I discovered, was a very polite way of saying professional snack-napper.
Life was messy, smudgy, and technically illegal. But it had a rhythm. A peculiar sort of comfort.
Except… every now and then, I'd catch my reflection in a teapot or a puddle and pause.
There was something in my eyes.
Something I had forgotten to remember.
That evening, curled in my attic nest of maps and threadbare blankets, I dreamed of wings.
Not of flying—just the sensation of them.
Feathers brushing my spine.
And somewhere, far away, someone whispered my name.
Not Thistle.
But something else.
Something… forgotten.
When I woke up, my first thought was:
"Why do I smell so strongly of onions?"
My second thought was cut short by the realization that I was hanging upside-down, halfway down a chimney, clutching a loaf of pilfered bread in one hand and a glinting spoon clenched between my teeth.
"Oi! She's stuck again!" someone shouted from below.
I squirmed. My boots kicked loose a flurry of soot, which burst into the air like a panicked flock of pigeons. With a final, undignified grunt, I tumbled out of the fireplace and landed in a heap on a threadbare rug—bread miraculously intact.
Two rough-looking boys and a crotchety parrot stood over me, unimpressed.
"That's the fifth chimney this week," muttered the older boy, shaking his head. "You've got the brains of a baked turnip, Thistle."
Thistle?
I sat up slowly, brushing cinders off an oversized coat dotted with seventeen mismatched buttons. My hands were wrapped in fingerless gloves. My satchel—oddly heavy—was brimming with spoons. My head throbbed. My memories were like pudding.
Runny pudding.
"Why did you call me Thistle?" I asked, dazed.
"Because it's your name, genius," said the parrot.
I blinked at the bird. The bird blinked back. Then, with great theatricality, it squawked, "Kettle-snatcher! Sock-thief! Disgrace to chimney criminals everywhere!"
That was when I realized something was very wrong.
I didn't know who I was. Not before this moment. Not how I'd gotten here. Just fragments—burning light, laughter, something about a swan? But it all vanished like breath on a mirror.
The hideout, it turned out, was tucked beneath a dilapidated pastry shop that always smelled like cinnamon and what-ifs. My profession, according to the boys, was urban acquisition specialist—which, I discovered, was a very polite way of saying professional snack-napper.
Life was messy, smudgy, and technically illegal. But it had a rhythm. A peculiar sort of comfort.
Except… every now and then, I'd catch my reflection in a teapot or a puddle and pause.
There was something in my eyes.
Something I had forgotten to remember.
That evening, curled in my attic nest of maps and threadbare blankets, I dreamed of wings.
Not of flying—just the sensation of them.
Feathers brushing my spine.
And somewhere, far away, someone whispered my name.
Not Thistle.
But something else.
Something… forgotten.