Falconer

Her hair cut short, sculpted into perfection, a quiet rebellion. No softness there — only intention. She stood still, chin lifted, eyes fixed forward, as if the future itself had dared to challenge her.

On her hand rested the falcon.

It was not tame in the sentimental sense. Its feathers lay sleek and disciplined, its gaze sharp and unblinking. Bird and woman mirrored one another — two spirits bound not by ownership, but by recognition. They shared the same severity, the same understanding: freedom is not loud; it is controlled.