The first cut is flat and far. Hills barely above the treeline, quiet as held breath. Scroll gently — the paper begins to separate like pages of a storybook.
Deeper cuts. The near layer sways out of sync with the far one, shadows pooling in the gap. A whole autumn lives in the space between two sheets of paper.
Sienna bleeds into teal. The fifth layer finally parts, and underneath — a sun of paper-gold, cut out by hand. Above, real birds pretend to pass. They are only ink.