The girl walks on past the woodpile, keeping her eyes ahead. For a moment there is only the soft sound of her boots on damp earth — then, faintly, the pad of small paws behind her. She doesn't look back. The lane bends left around a stand of ash trees, their silver bark peeling in long curls, and begins to slope downward. The tall grass thins and the path widens into a rutted cart track. Below, a low stone bridge crosses a dark stream, and beyond it, half-swallowed by mist, stands a mill — its wheel motionless, its upper window amber-lit from within. A voice drifts across the water: not quite words, almost like counting. The crow sweeps past overhead, low and silent, and banks toward the mill without pausing. Whatever is behind the girl goes quiet the moment the crow passes.