There are many things to compare thieves to: cats who are silent and agile, water which rushes over things and seeps into crevices. Wind perhaps, which drifts and dodges, moves gracefully, ever forward through, rather than against, obstacles. But he is not like any animal, water, or the wind, he is quieter and gentler. And especially so here; he is like air, silent and still, innocuous and simply present.
Had he practiced opening this very window, or did all windows simply obey him? Where doors, floors, and joints might creak. in his presence they are quiet, well-mannered subjects. Perhaps he had drifted in the window on moonlight, it’s latch firmly set behind him.
Her room is sparse, but he might go through her footlocker, read every book, or pilfer any number of small objects and still be gone before she woke. But no, the old books, the satchel, the glassy green stone, and the little knife are left to be. The treasure he’s interested in, is apparently quite fast asleep at this very late or more accurately, entirely too early hour.
The chair was brought closer to her bed, near enough that he might reach out and graze her cheek. But he does not. He sits quietly, comfortably reclined, for a long time perhaps, folded parchment under his hand, resting on his thigh. The moonlight illuminating a sliver around the edge of his shoulder and neck, up the edge of his stubble covered chin and cheek, through half curled locks of red made blue in the light.
“Gloria,” he whispered, breaking the spell of silence so softly it might remain intact if he did not speak again.