Some people collect coins. Some collect vinyl records. Me? I seem to collect stories — peculiar ones, out-of-the-ordinary tales that defy logic or explanation. And among these stories, none shines brighter or feels more surreal than the story of Tiny Rhea — my freak.
I don’t use the word “freak” lightly. It’s not a label of mockery, but of wonder. Tiny Rhea wasn’t grotesque or unsettling. She was strange — a delightful strangeness that danced on the edge of magic and reality. If anything, calling her my freak was an affectionate nod to the way she twisted the fabric of my mundane existence into something extraordinary.
Let me tell you how it all began.
The First Encounter
I wasn’t looking for a new friend, much less someone like Rhea. It was a gray Wednesday afternoon, one of those days when the clouds loom so low you feel you could reach up and brush your fingertips against them. I was killing time in an old second-hand bookstore tucked away in a forgotten corner of the city. You know the kind — towering piles of books threatening to collapse, dust motes dancing in the shaft of light from a single window.
I had wandered into the fantasy section when I heard the tiniest of sneezes.
“Ah-choo!”
It was so faint I thought I’d imagined it. But there it was again.
“Ah-choo!”
I tilted my head and followed the sound to a crooked stack of oversized tomes. Perched on the top of The Complete History of Elven Potions was a girl, no taller than my hand, sitting cross-legged, rubbing her tiny nose with a petal.
Her hair was a tangled halo of silver threads, her eyes an impossible shade of violet. She wore a dress fashioned from what looked like scraps of silk and dried leaves, and on her back fluttered translucent wings, so delicate they seemed carved from light.
I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and blinked again.
“Are you… real?”
She tilted her head and grinned. “Are you?”
Tiny Rhea
Her name, she explained, was Rhea — or Tiny Rhea, as she laughingly preferred to be called. She claimed to be part of an ancient race that lived between the folds of our world and another — a place she called the Veil. How she’d ended up in a dusty old bookstore, she didn’t say. When I asked, she merely winked and said, “I like books.”
Against all reason, I believed her.
Perhaps it was the sparkle in her eyes or the way the air seemed to hum around her. Perhaps it was the way she flitted from shelf to shelf, leaving trails of golden dust that smelled faintly of cinnamon and wildflowers.
I spent the entire afternoon with her, asking questions, laughing at her mischievous pranks (she delighted in levitating bookmarks and sending them fluttering across the room), and marveling at her tiny world. When the sun began to set, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges, she perched on my shoulder and said,
“You’re fun. I think I’ll stick with you for a while.”
And just like that, Tiny Rhea became a part of my life.
Life with a Personal Freak
At first, having a tiny winged being shadowing me everywhere was… complicated.
She insisted on traveling in my pocket or perching on my shoulder when we went out. The first time I brought her home, my cat, Muffin, nearly lost her mind. After a brief chase and a stern lecture (from Rhea, not me), the two reached an uneasy truce.
Rhea was a whirlwind of curiosity. She asked questions about everything — cell phones, microwaves, and the concept of pizza. She adored movies and binge-watched The Lord of the Rings trilogy with me in a single weekend, providing her running commentary.
“They got the wings all wrong,” she scoffed. “And where’s the pixie council?”
Despite her love of modern distractions, Rhea remained fundamentally… otherworldly. She could speak to birds and coax plants to grow faster. When I caught a cold, she brewed a strange-smelling tea from herbs she gathered on her nocturnal flights. It worked better than any over-the-counter medicine.
She had rules, though. Never ask her about the Veil. Never try to follow her when she slips away at night. And never, ever tell anyone about her.
I honored her wishes, though it wasn’t easy. Have you ever tried keeping a secret so incredible it burns a hole in your tongue every time you’re with friends?
The Gift of Wonder
Over time, Rhea became more than a curiosity — she became a friend.
She had a wicked sense of humor and an infectious laugh that made bad days bearable. When I faced heartbreak or disappointment, she would land on my chest, wings shimmering, and say, “This too will pass. But you, my friend, will remain.” Somehow, those simple words meant more than any pep talk.
She taught me to see the world with fresh eyes.
A dew-speckled spiderweb became a tapestry of starlight. The wind through the trees sang lullabies I’d never noticed. The night sky wasn’t empty but alive with whispers and possibilities.
“Your world,” she once told me, “is brimming with magic. You’ve simply forgotten how to see it.”
Under her influence, I began to remember.
The Cost of Knowing
Of course, not everything was whimsical.
There were nights when Rhea would return to my apartment pale and trembling, her wings frayed and torn. She refused to speak of what had happened. Sometimes she vanished for days, leaving me sick with worry.
I learned that the Veil was not without dangers and that even a creature as radiant as Rhea carried burdens I could never understand.
Once, during a summer thunderstorm, I found her crouched in the corner of my bookshelf, weeping silent, silver tears. When I asked what was wrong, she whispered,
“The world behind the Veil is changing. It’s bleeding into yours. I don’t know how long I can stay.”
The words chilled me more than the storm outside.
But she stayed — for a while.
The Last Flight
It happened on the cusp of autumn. The leaves had just begun their fiery transformation when Rhea grew restless.
She spent hours gazing out the window, wings flickering with anxious energy. One crisp morning, as sunlight filtered through amber leaves, she sat on my shoulder and said:
“It’s time.”
I swallowed hard. “Time for what?”
“To return.”
I protested. Begged her to stay. But deep down, I knew I couldn’t hold her back. She was never mine to keep.
With a sad smile, she pressed her tiny palm against my cheek. “You’ve been a true friend. For that, I’ll give you a gift.”
She reached into the pouch slung across her waist and pulled out a single iridescent feather. “Keep this. When the world feels gray, hold it and remember. Magic is real — and so are we.”
Then, with one last embrace, she soared out the window and into the dawn, leaving behind a trail of shimmering dust.
Aftermath
It’s been three years since Tiny Rhea vanished from my life.
Sometimes I wonder if I imagined the whole thing — a fever dream conjured by loneliness and too many fantasy novels. But then I find her feather, tucked safely in a wooden box, still glowing faintly in the dark.
And I remember.
I remember the joy of discovering wonder in the mundane, the thrill of seeing the world through enchanted eyes. I remember laughter, late-night conversations, and the bond forged between two unlikely friends.
Tiny Rhea was — and will always be — my freak. Not in the pejorative sense, but as a being who defied convention, who cracked open the walls of reality and let a little magic seep through.
She taught me that wonder is never far away, that the world holds more mysteries than we dare to dream.
So now, on gray afternoons, I visit that old bookstore and wander the aisles, ears attuned for the faintest sneeze or flutter of wings. And when the clouds hang low, I glance skyward and whisper,
“Thank you, Rhea.”
Because once you’ve glimpsed the impossible, you carry it with you — always.
