The ship rocked gently as it docked at the wooden pier. A mist clung to the harbor, swirling around the feet of the passengers as they disembarked. Among them was a tall man draped in a deep violet coat, a long cane tapping against the ground as he strode forward. His hat, wide-brimmed and adorned with a silver feather, shielded his sharp features from the morning light.
The magician had arrived.
The town bustled with morning energy—merchants haggling, fishmongers calling out their latest catch, children weaving between adults with laughter. He moved through the streets with purpose, yet no destination. His boots left faint traces of glowing dust in their wake, unnoticed by the passersby.
As he wandered, his gaze was drawn to a small yard enclosed by a black iron fence. Inside, a little girl sat on the cobbled ground, her tiny fingers folding crisp white paper with precision. Around her, dozens of paper cranes perched like a flock frozen in mid-motion. Some hung from strings tied to the bare branches of a tree, others sat in neat rows, their wings slightly curled as if caught mid-flap.
The magician leaned against the fence, watching. The girl, perhaps sensing his presence, lifted her head. Her eyes, curious but cautious, met his.
"You fold them well," the magician said.
The girl nodded, brushing dark curls from her face. "I make one every day."
He stepped closer. "Why cranes?"
"They say," she answered, carefully pressing down a fold, "if you make a thousand, a wish will come true."
The magician's lips curled into a smile. "A fine reason indeed."
She finished the crane and placed it beside the others. "Who are you?"
"I am a magician," he said with a dramatic sweep of his hand, causing tiny golden sparks to flicker in the air. "And you, my dear, seem to be a magician of paper."
The girl tilted her head. "Magicians do tricks, right?"
"Indeed," he said. "Is making cranes fun?"
She nodded.
"Ah," he said, tapping his chin. "I know something even more fun."
With a flourish, he flicked his wrist, and from seemingly nowhere, a silver coin appeared between his fingers. He rolled it across his knuckles, made it vanish, then plucked it from behind her ear.
The girl blinked, unimpressed.
Undeterred, he flicked his fingers again. A deck of cards materialized, shuffling themselves in midair before fanning out in a perfect arc. He snapped them closed, then tossed them into the sky, where they burst into a flurry of violet butterflies.
The girl watched the butterflies flutter away, then returned to folding another crane.
The magician's smile faltered. "Was that not fun?"
She shrugged. "Making cranes is still more fun."
For the first time in a long while, the magician found himself at a loss. "Tomorrow," he said, adjusting his hat, "I'll do something even better."
And so, he did.
The next day, he returned, conjuring an entire deck of cards into a spiraling tower that defied gravity. The girl watched but simply continued folding.
The day after that, he pulled ribbons of light from the air, twisting them into dancing figures that spun and bowed before vanishing. A few other children gathered around, clapping, but the girl remained unmoved.
On the third day, he performed a trick so grand that even townsfolk outside the orphanage stopped to watch. With a wave of his cane, the ground shimmered, and suddenly, the yard was filled with an illusion of floating lanterns, drifting like stars. The audience gasped in delight.
The girl only smiled politely.
That evening, as the magician walked away, he chuckled to himself. No child had ever resisted his magic so stubbornly.
But then, he disappeared.
For days, the magician did not return.
At first, the girl hardly noticed. She continued making cranes. But as the days passed, she caught herself glancing toward the gate, waiting for a familiar violet coat to appear.
And when laughter echoed in the yard, it felt emptier without his voice among them.
Then, one afternoon, she was told she had been adopted. She packed her things—little more than a few paper cranes and a worn-out dress—and left the orphanage behind.
Her new home was warm, her new parents kind. But on her first night, as she sat by her bedroom window, something flickered in the yard below.
A figure in violet.
The magician stood beneath the moonlight, tipping his hat as he smiled up at her.
Curious, she slipped out of bed, crept downstairs, and stepped into the garden.
"You disappeared," she said.
"I had to prepare something special," he replied.
With a tap of his cane, he gestured behind him.
There, towering over them, was a paper crane the size of a carriage. Its folded wings gleamed under the moonlight, its beak pointed toward the sky.
The girl's breath caught. "You made that?"
He nodded. "But watch this."
Lifting his cane, he tapped the paper bird.
The crane shuddered, then stretched its wings. The paper rustled, its folds shifting as if breathing. Then, with a mighty beat, it lifted off the ground, hovering inches above the grass.
The girl took a step forward, her eyes wide.
"Now," the magician said, offering his hand, "would you like to fly?"
Without hesitation, she placed her small hand in his.
They climbed atop the crane, the magician settling behind her. With another gentle tap, the great paper bird ascended, lifting them into the night sky.
The town stretched beneath them, the streets glowing with lanterns, the rooftops like tiny puzzle pieces. The wind carried them over the harbor, where the ocean shimmered like liquid glass.
The girl laughed—a sound light and free, carried away by the breeze.
For the first time, she understood.
Magic was not just tricks or illusions.
Magic was feeling.
And in that moment, flying above the world on a creature born of folded paper and wonder, she felt it.
When they finally returned to the garden, she turned to the magician. "That," she said, beaming, "was more fun."
The magician bowed low, tipping his hat once more.
"Then my work here is done."
With that, he stepped back into the shadows, his violet coat vanishing into the night.
The girl watched him go, a single paper crane clutched in her hand.
She knew she would see him again.
For magic, after all, never truly disappears.