The dawn broke with a heavy, gray sky — no birdsong, no light, only the cold drizzle that soaked the cracked earth.
Inside the hut, the woman sat stiffly, her back pressed against the worn wood. The warmth inside her pulsed steadily, now a steady drum she could no longer ignore.
Outside, the village whispered in hushed tones, but no one dared come near.
The crow perched silently on the windowsill, its black eyes unreadable and still.
She traced the faint outlines of the carved symbols on the walls — marks she didn't remember making, but which seemed older than time itself.
The child moved again, this time stronger, curling like a shadow beneath her skin.
Her breath hitched.
The air around her thickened — heavier, like the weight of unseen eyes.
Then, from the corner of the room, a soft tapping began.
Slow. Patient. Like a heartbeat.
She turned sharply — but saw nothing.
Her fingers clenched the hem of her cloak, nails biting into the ragged cloth.
The tapping grew louder, more urgent.
A single feather drifted from the ceiling — black as night, landing softly at her feet.
The woman knelt and picked it up, holding it against her heart.
She whispered, "I am ready."