Whispers spread throughout the crowd, the curtains in front of us parting, seemingly on their own. I watch the last wisps of sunlight disappear into the mid November sky. First tent of the night, and though I have been here for a week, there are still corners for me to explore. The space is dark, save for a few candles floating in the black abyss. When the room is full, the flames brighten, the flap of a door disappearing into thin air. I can see now that the room is full of paper animals; some life size, some which would fit in the palm of my hand; creatures I recognize and beings I could never have imagined. Strolling to the center of the room, I find a small, birdlike creature. It is then I know these are no ordinary pieces of parchment. As I bend down to touch the bird, it ruffles it’s pages and flutters to my knee. Its wings are covered in words; words written in more languages I knew existed in the world. From its beak, it drops a small scroll. It’s not until I exit the tent do I dare read it:
Don’t lose hope.
I tuck the paper in my pocket, knowing that some day I will need it.
