The rain eased by the second day, but the sky stayed heavy — a swollen lid holding back something worse than water.
She stepped outside for the first time since the storm, her bare feet sinking into the wet soil. The air smelled of smoke.
Down the slope, just beyond the crooked fence, three figures stood in the mist. They did not move when she looked at them. Did not speak. Only watched.
She turned away, forcing herself to the woodpile. The crow shifted uneasily on its perch atop the roof beam, feathers puffed, eyes bright and hard.
When she bent to lift a log, the child stirred again — but this time, the movement sent a sharp heat down her spine. She gritted her teeth. The watchers did not leave.
By the time she carried the wood inside, she could hear them. Low voices, too far to catch the words but not far enough to ignore.
The afternoon stretched on like a fraying rope. Every sound beyond the hut made her shoulders tighten — the wet snap of branches, the drip of water from the eaves, the restless shuffle of boots in the mud.
Then came the first knock.
It was not loud. Just three quick raps on the wooden door, almost polite.
She froze.
Another set of knocks followed — the same rhythm, the same calm. The crow cawed sharply, its wings lifting as if to take flight.
She didn't move. Didn't answer.
The knocks stopped. Silence swelled in their place… and then a whisper slid beneath the door like smoke.
> "We know what you carry."
Her chest tightened. She stepped backward until her heel brushed the edge of the hearth.
The whisper came again, this time from the wall to her left.
> "It will not belong to you."
The crow hissed — a sound no bird should make — and the air in the hut thickened, warm and heavy.
When she finally found the courage to look through the crack between the door and the frame, the watchers were gone.
Only the mud remained, marked by prints too large for human feet.