Burning Papers

Burning Pages
This story is true, names have been changed to protect those involved.

Sage Sayer stood over New York City, Only glass separating the two. His hands traced symbols and pictures on the fogged windows as he absent-mindedly sketched the same pictures on a piece of paper lying listlessly in his lap. A knock startled him and he jumped up, the paper fluttering onto the studio floor. Collecting himself he made his way to the door, subtly admiring his work on the Mannequins as he passed. It had been a long day, one that even the comfortable familiarity of his staff and studio could not keep at bay. “Hello?” He asked, opening the door only a crack. Light filtered through, then suddenly a burst. It sent both Sage and the door flying. Struggling to get on his feet Sage raised his hands in defense but no blows came.
He blinked spots from his vision.
Two men were throwing his Mannequins onto the ground. Ripping the clothes he had spent so much time and love designing, all the while barking things like “Where is it!?” Sage tried to get to his feet, pain shooting out through his nerve system. He wondered where his secretary Honey was, and if she was okay. “Where is the damn thing!?” One barked to the other as they both continued their destruction.
Finally, with the help of a table for support Sage got to his feet, he knew what they were looking for. He smiled. They wouldn’t find it here.
“Sorry boys.” Sage croaked as he reached for the ground, where a long hand sewn piece of cloth lay. “But you’re just too late.” He brought the cloth up to the light, and it showed the delicate pattern of a Monarch butterfly’s wing. “He’s gonna do it!” The one on the left warned the other.

Sage began to run.
He ran so fast his feet hurt.
Shots rang out.
The lights in the room shattered as they fell around Sage.
He kept running.
He wrapped himself in the cloth.
Ran to the window.
Sounds of more gunshots and glass breaking.
Sage was falling.
Sage was flying.

He fluttered over the city, his wings delicate and being thrown around by the wind. He knew he only had one place he could go. He knew he was running out of time. He fluttered over central park, over people and buildings. Until he reached the small building with the small red door.
He fell onto the ground, the snow around him turning crimson and the monarch cloth held close to his body. He reached his hand out, the old red wood just inches away.
Push Sage.
You got one chance.
He heard the knocking but didn’t feel the wood. He heard the door creep open and strong arms picking him up. He heard womans voice making demands and gruff responses.
Then Sage felt silence.

A story about the shapeshifting arts that hits close to home… sorry for any errors… I’m half asleep.