To a casual observer, Greta appears to just be taking in the view from the broad porch that encircles the little, pod-shaped treehouse. One hand is wrapped around an elbowed branch - anyone could be forgiven for wanting to steady themselves, with the railing so low and the drop so considerable - but it's a nice view, well worth some contemplation, provided you don't look down.

Greta looked down three minutes ago, and she's been standing stock-still ever since. Her hand is starting to cramp from gripping the branch with white-knuckled desperation, but she can't let go. Not again. Each subtle shift of the planking below her feet seems to reverberate with the intensity of a giant's footfall, threatening to send her over the edge of the inconsequential railing and tumbling into the void. Leaves are already showing her the way, little brown-gold fluttering things, and it's only a matter of time, this is what happens, this is what always happens.

Her hand slips over the bark, no more than a hair's-breadth, but she still lets out a tiny squeak of alarm.