She did not sleep that night.
The scraping, the thud—it lingered in her mind like the aftertaste of something bitter. Every time she closed her eyes, she imagined shapes moving just beyond the edges of her vision.
By dawn, her body ached from sitting upright. The fire had gone cold, leaving only the faint smell of smoke clinging to her skin.
She stepped outside, the frost crunching beneath her bare feet. The sun was still hidden behind the ridge, painting the sky in dull grays. The forest stood still—too still. No birdsong, no rustle of leaves, as if the night's visitor had stolen the sounds along with its presence.
Then she saw them.
Marks on the earth. Not footprints—not exactly. The soil was disturbed in long, curving trails, as though something with many limbs had crawled toward her hut. And there, where the marks ended, was the wall where she'd heard the thud.
Her fingers traced the wood. The surface was damp, but not from dew. When she pulled her hand back, her fingertips were black.
The crow landed on her shoulder without warning, claws digging into her shawl. It stared at the wall too, feathers rising, as though it knew the substance smeared there.
She wiped her fingers on her skirt and turned back toward the door. That's when she saw him.
A figure stood at the tree line, shrouded in morning mist. Tall, thin—no, too thin. His arms hung loosely at his sides, and his head tilted like a branch bent under too much weight.
She froze.
The figure did not move.
The mist shifted around him, curling upward, hiding and revealing his form as though he was stitched from the fog itself.
> "You are close," the voice came—not from him, but from everywhere.
Her chest tightened.
The crow flapped once, hard, as if trying to drive the figure back, but it remained. Watching.
When she blinked, it was gone.
But the trails in the dirt still pointed toward her home.
And she knew it would come back.