The night thickened around the hut like a heavy cloak, pressing in with silence so deep it seemed to swallow the faintest sound.
Inside, the woman sat huddled near the cold hearth, her breath visible in the chill air. The warmth in her belly pulsed steadily — a heartbeat foreign yet alive, echoing through her like thunder under fragile glass.
Outside, the village lay still, but eyes watched from shuttered windows, their shadows flickering like restless ghosts.
The crow fluttered to a nearby rafter, its dark feathers whispering secrets no one dared speak aloud.
A sudden scrape—sharp and deliberate—scratched against the wooden door. She didn't flinch.
The wind moaned through the cracks, carrying with it a faint, mournful melody—like a lullaby half-forgotten and drenched in sorrow.
The woman's fingers trembled as she reached out to the pot beside her, dipping her hand into the cold water.
She let the droplets fall slowly onto the floor, listening.
A soft clicking echoed from the far corner—the sound of something small, alive, moving just beyond sight.
Her heart thrummed in her chest, steady and fierce.
Then came the whisper again, softer now, brushing against her ear like silk.
"We come for you."
Her eyes widened, but she stayed rooted, refusing to run.
Outside, the wind twisted into a howl, carrying the voices of the village—angry, fearful, desperate.
The woman rose slowly, placing one hand on her belly, feeling the child stir with a power that both terrified and comforted her.
The crow cawed once—sharp and clear—before launching into the night, a dark sentinel on the edge of a coming storm.
The woman's lips parted in a breathless prayer—not to the gods who had turned away, but to the darkness that had chosen her.