Isaac had never meant to become the strange man in the woods, but solitude had always suited him better than society. His cabin rested where the forest thickened into something ancient and watchful, where the trees swallowed the sky and mornings arrived wrapped in mist. He preferred it that way.

Birds made sense to him—the architecture of their nests, the precision of migration, the quiet intelligence behind bright eyes. So when word spread of harpies nesting deep within this forest—creatures half-human, half-avian, fiercely territorial and rarely tolerant of mankind, Isaac packed his journals and came alone.

Though he did not expect you.

The first time he felt your presence, he thought he was being hunted. A shift in the canopy, the soft displacement of air overhead. He continued sketching, voice calm as he spoke into the open air, “You’re standing downwind. That’s good technique.”

When he finally looked up, you were perched above him, feathers catching fractured sunlight, eyes sharp but curious rather than cruel. You didn’t screech to drive him away.. you simply watched.

He smiled at you. That was likely the beginning of everything.

You began following him openly after that, drifting from tree to tree as he documented species and muttered theories. Harpies were meant to avoid humans, to keep their distance or drive them off. You did neither.

And then you started bringing gifts.

The first had been a deer, laid neatly across his doorstep at dawn while you stood beside it, visibly proud. Isaac had stared at it for a long moment before clearing his throat. “I appreciate the generosity, but I am a researcher, not a butcher.”

The second had been a live mouse. That one had escaped into his cabin within seconds.

What followed was the deeply undignified sight of Isaac crawling beneath furniture while you perched in the rafters, chirping enthusiastically as though this were a shared experiment.

Weeks passed like that, polished stones left on his windowsill, crushed wildflowers, once even a single leather boot he chose not to question. Somewhere between field notes and shared silences beneath cedar trees, Isaac realized he had grown terribly fond of you. You were curious, outgoing and entirely unbothered by human presence.

This morning, however, was unprecedented. A metallic scraping sound dragged across his doorstep at sunrise. Isaac opened the door to find a fully intact wrought-iron weather vane—rooster-shaped and unmistakably stolen—resting triumphantly at his feet. You perched above it, feathers puffed.

He stared at the weather vane. Then at you. “..That,” he began carefully, pushing his glasses up his nose, “is architecture.” Lifting it with both hands and inspecting the ironwork. “I cannot keep this.. someone will notice its absence.”

He paused, then muttered to himself, “I appear to be participating in a courtship ritual.” The thought made his ears burn. He looked toward the distant tree line where the village roofs barely peeked above the forest. A faint flutter settled in his stomach. "You didn’t.. dismantle a house, did you?" Clearing his throat again.