The storm did not leave with the night. It lingered through the dawn and into the following day, a curtain of rain that blurred the shapes of the village and swallowed the mountains beyond.
She had not slept. Every creak of the hut, every groan of the wind, sounded like those footsteps returning.
Her hands worked without thought, grinding dried roots for tea. The sound was rough and uneven, almost like the grinding of teeth. She spilled half of it without noticing.
When she finally sat down, the child shifted again — more restless now, the movement pressing hard against her ribs. She gasped, setting the cup aside, and looked down at her belly. For a moment, she swore she could see something beneath the skin. Not a hand. Not a foot. Something else.
The flesh rose in a faint line, almost like a curling script, then sank back into stillness. Her fingers hovered over the spot but didn't touch.
The crow croaked low from its perch. When she looked at it, the bird's head tilted — not toward her, but toward the dark corner of the hut where the shadows seemed too deep for the small light inside.
She had lived with this thing growing inside her for months, but now the distance between it and her felt sharper. The heartbeat was its own. The thoughts — yes, she was certain there were thoughts — were not hers.
She rose and moved to the washbasin, pouring water into the cracked bowl. She leaned over it, letting the rain-scented air touch her face. Her reflection wavered in the rippling surface… until it stopped rippling altogether.
Her own eyes looked back at her — but they were not hers. Black as wet stone, depthless, and older than the earth.
She staggered back, knocking over the basin. The water spread across the dirt floor, pooling at her feet.
The voice came again, from nowhere and everywhere at once.
> "Our mark is upon you. When the hour comes, none shall take it away."
The candle's flame sputtered out without wind.
When darkness claimed the hut, the child's heartbeat was the only sound left.