The hut shivered under the weight of a wind that carried whispers — half-heard voices twisting like smoke through the cracks in the walls.
Outside, the village held its breath.
The woman sat by the dying fire, her fingers trembling as they traced the rim of the cracked pot beside her. The warmth in her belly pulsed again — slow, heavy, like the beat of a drum deep beneath the earth.
The crow stirred above, its feathers rustling with a sound like dry leaves scraping stone.
A distant howl broke the silence, hollow and desperate, fading into the night's chill.
She closed her eyes, letting the sounds wash over her — the creak of the wooden beams, the sigh of the wind, the faint drip of water somewhere unseen.
Then came a new sound.
Soft. Almost like a breath.
It wasn't hers.
Her eyes snapped open.
The room felt colder.
The shadows seemed to lean closer.
Her hands clutched her belly as the warmth surged again, hotter this time — a slow, pulsing heat that spread like wildfire beneath her skin.
A whisper echoed through the hut, low and ancient.
"You are not alone."
Her heart pounded — not with fear, but with something raw and unyielding.
Outside, the village dogs barked once — sharp, warning.
And the crow cawed twice, calling out into the darkness.
The woman's breath caught in her throat.
She was not alone.
Not anymore.