She braced her feet in the grass and tried again. The bow in her hair had come unraveled, red ribbon slipping around her neck like a scarf overeager for winter snow. She'd managed a few magnificent skips this time, a few glorious moments of gliding above the tall grass, but it wasn't nearly enough. She tried once more, squinting into the early morning sun. Instead of soaring, the girl crashed into the ground with a clumsy elegance, her face composed as her legs scrambled to keep her upright.

"Not yet," she told herself. She tied the ribbon around her wrist and pushed a foot into a dent in the base of a tree. She climbed up, her mouth turned down in an uneven frown, her hands plucking perches from the tree as she made her way to the top. The girl settled on a branch and took a long look at the clearing below. It was quaint, pretty, even, in the right sort of sunlight, but it didn't hold any secrets.

But today, it held a view.

A man ran in, his breaths sporadic. He fell to the grass, frantic, and weaved his fingers through it. The girl wrapped an arm around a branch and leaned forward for a closer look. His pockets were inside out, white pillows against the greenery, and he held a pair of spectacles on the top of his head, nested in a tumble of sandy brown hair. His arms, peeking from a dark blue polo, were covered in miniscule cuts, but he didn't seem to notice them.

"A bead!" He shouted in triumph. He squeezed it, his face falling as juice ran down his fingertips. "Not a bead." He plopped into the grass, sliding his arms through the plants as if trying to leave an angel behind. Then he laughed, warm like petals unfolding. At his laugh, the girl softened and let herself slip from the tree. The man started. "Oh," he said, disguising his surprise with a casual swipe to his hair. He dislodged his glasses and winced as they slipped from his head. "Hello."

"Hello," the girl replied back. Then she turned to walk away.

"Don't say 'hello' as you're about to leave! That's rude, you know." He located the frames and crowned his head with them.

"I wouldn't know," the girl answered. "I don't say hello often."

"And that's not very neighborly of you." She turned to look at the man. He was sitting up, out of place like a crow's leg against the grass, an amiable smile on his face.

"Why?" She asked, forgetting to sound cross. "Do you live around here?"

"No, I'm…" He lost his words. "I'm trying to move away actually."

"Then you're not my neighbor." She spoke quietly, her legs folded, her hands balanced on her knees. She relaxed her position and stroked the grass beside her feet. "Why do you care?" He snapped his attention back to her.

"Because!" He said like it was the most obvious fact in the world. "If we don't care, what's the point?"

"Music," the girl whispered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Please! Don't talk to me. Please?" He looked at her curiously, then gave a nod of acceptance. It was this gesture, this remarkably adult tip of his head that made the girl want to stay. Not once had he treated her like a child.

"Can you help me?" He asked.

She pretended to think about it, but the girl with the bow snug around her wrist had already made up her mind.

"Maybe."

"If you help me, I'll leave you alone forever. I'm trying to get out of here, remember?"

"Right." She swallowed. Nodded.

"I need to find a necklace," he continued. "I dropped it, and it's very important to my grandmother. I can't leave without returning it, just like you couldn't leave without saying goodbye."

I could leave without saying goodbye, the girl thought. That's how you fly away.

"A bird might've taken it," he added, and pictures of music, reds, purples, blues intertwined like a mating dance filled the girl's head.

"Alright," she said slowly. In her mind she was riding a bird with golden tips on its wings. "I will help you." He stood up, delighted.

"Great!" The girl could tell he meant it, and she showed him a smile. But already she was chasing music, gliding above the hiding place of his grandmother's necklace, flying like she had known how to fly all her life.