Mira tilts the receipt toward the cobalt flame. The word is plain now — no shimmer, no rearranging — just one word in her own ink: *Threnavel*. The moment her eyes settle on it fully, something shifts in her chest, like a key turning in a lock she didn't know was there. The pine-cold draft from the hallway strengthens, tugging at the loose hairs at her temple, and the crow at the sill releases a single low sound — not quite a syllable, but weighted, expectant. The receipt feels lighter suddenly, as though the word has shed the burden of hiding. Mira mouths it silently, testing its shape. The cobalt flame stretches toward her — just slightly, just enough to notice. Whatever *Threnavel* means, it means something to this house, to this crow, possibly to her in ways she hasn't begun to understand. The open door waits at the end of the dark hall.