The nights had grown heavier. Not colder, not quieter—just heavier, like the air itself carried weight, pressing on her lungs. Even the fire in the hearth seemed dimmer, its glow struggling to keep the shadows at bay.
She sat cross-legged on the dirt floor, her swollen belly resting against her thighs, listening to the faint hiss of burning wood. The crow slept on its perch, feathers ruffling every so often, as if it dreamed of wind.
Outside, the world was breathing again. The trees sighed. The soil groaned. And between the sounds of nature, something else moved—too slow for a beast, too deliberate for the wind.
She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. The movement in her belly had grown restless tonight, as if the child could feel whatever prowled beyond the firelight.
A soft scrape came from the far wall of the hut. Not inside—no, it was just outside, dragging along the wood. Her heart hammered.
> "Go away," she whispered, unsure if she meant the words for the prowler or for whatever listened beyond the veil of gods.
The scraping stopped. Then came a single thud, like a hand pressing against the wall.
The crow's head snapped up. It didn't caw—only stared at the wall with one unblinking eye.
She felt her breath catch. The warmth in her belly pulsed once—hard enough to make her gasp. It wasn't a kick. It was… a push. A wave. Something flowing outward from the child into the air around her.
The firelight flickered violently, stretching shadows into long, crooked limbs along the walls. She thought she heard a voice in that darkness—low, rumbling, ancient—but it was gone before she could make out words.
The thud against the wall receded, slow footsteps dragging into the distance. The crow finally blinked and settled back into place.
She exhaled, trembling, and placed her hand over her stomach.
The heartbeat inside her felt calm again. But outside, in the dark, something had learned where she lived.she felt something was not okay the supposed baby never kicked ever since a long time ago