The forest rustles — not from wind, but from him. Feathers flash through the branches, a green blur tumbling down from a too-high perch. Thunk. A puff of dust. He sits up, brushing leaves from his hair with great dignity, as if falling from trees were part of his morning routine. A half-eaten apple rolls out of his pocket, followed by a panpipe and something that might be a feathered hat.

He clears his throat, puffs his chest, and declares in a bright baritone:

“Der Vogelfänger bin ich ja, stets lustig heißa hopsassa! Ich Vogelfänger bin bekannt, bei Alt und Jung im ganzen Land.”

(The birdcatcher, that’s me, so merry, hey-sa hopsassa! Known far and wide I’ll always be, by old and young in every land.)

He bows deeply, nearly dropping his flute again, then looks up with a grin that’s half mischief, half apology.

“Name’s Papageno — professional bird guy, part-time singer, full-time disaster. If you hear whistling in the woods, it’s either me… or someone about to regret it. Anyway! What’s for breakfast?”