It began with the pigeons in Trafalgar Square.
Mid-flap, they shimmered, rustled, and collapsed into intricate origami forms—cranes, mostly, with sharp creases and paper-thin wings.
People filmed it. Screamed. Laughed. A viral moment. “Banksy’s done it again,” someone said.
But it kept happening.
Crows over Tower Bridge, warblers in Hyde Park, gulls along Embankment—each folded into itself in mid-air, wings tucking with uncanny precision before drifting down, silent and still. By the third day, there were no birds left in the city. Only paper.
Eli Grey saw the first one land on the brim of his hat.
It was a wren. Delicately folded from thin rice paper, legs pinched into position, eyes no more than pencil pricks.
He plucked it free and turned it over. A faint ink sigil marked the underside of its wing—something he’d drawn once, a flourish of showmanship on old business cards. Something he’d long forgotten.
Eli was a magician. Not a good one. Street corners, pub gardens, the occasional busker’s slot if the weather held. Cards, cups, sleight of hand. But he had one trick no one could ever figure out: he could make a bird disappear. A real one. Pigeons, mostly, hidden in cages under his coat. Made them vanish. Made people clap.
He’d never asked where they went.
He stood now at the edge of a fountain, a cigarette unlit between his lips. He watched a sparrow pause on a railing, twitch once, twice—and fold in on itself with a soft shfff of wings turning into parchment.
A woman clapped. “Beautiful!” someone cried. “So delicate—so peaceful.”
They didn’t see the horror in it. But Eli did. He’d seen the moment its eyes went flat.
He walked home slowly, pockets full of paper birds.
The next morning, he went down to the basement.
He hadn’t gone down there in years. The smell of mildew and ink was stronger than he remembered. The old grimoire lay where he’d left it—in a wooden chest beneath a rusted mirror and a bundle of broken wands.
He turned the pages with a kind of dread. There it was. Page 73. Aves Inversus. The folded bird sigil. Notes in the margin: Works best if live. Will not reverse. Never perform on sentient species.
He had used it—just once. A late night, low on coin, high on gin. He’d needed something brilliant. Something no one could copy.
And it had worked.
The first pigeon had folded into air and vanished.
And then he’d forgotten.
He tried to burn the book. It wouldn’t catch. The pages wouldn’t tear. The ink gleamed brighter under the matches.
The next day, he went to the park with a bag of breadcrumbs and waited. No birds came. Only paper rustling in the wind, tumbling across the grass like dead leaves.
By the end of the week, it wasn’t just birds.
Bats went next—on the edges of twilight, folding out of the sky like black napkins.
Then came the butterflies.
A child brought Eli a moth, folded perfectly from thin grey vellum. “Is this your trick?” she asked, eyes wide. “Can you show me how?”
Eli took it from her gently. “No, love,” he said. “This one’s not a trick.”
He stood at the top of Primrose Hill that night, a pack of cards in one hand, and a single white dove tucked under his coat.
He held it for a long time. It blinked at him, pulse fluttering fast under feathers. It was the last one he’d found—hidden in an abandoned church, cooing softly in the rafters. A survivor.
He whispered an apology into its ear.
Then he whispered something older—syllables from a language with no vowels. The dove trembled. The sigil on his palm lit briefly, then faded.
And the bird… did not fold.
It flew.
Real wings, real lift on the wind.
He watched it until it vanished into the dark, a thread of hope against the night.
In the morning, people woke to new birdsong.
Robert Walker 