Mira's lips part. The word comes out quieter than she intends — barely a breath — but the crow snaps upright as though she'd shouted. For one suspended moment nothing moves. Then the crow opens its beak and the sound that emerges is not a caw but something that bends around syllables, almost language, almost the word itself spoken back at her with a different inflection. The candle flame turns a deep cobalt blue. The receipt in Mira's hands grows warm, then hot, and the letters finally stop shifting — locking into one permanent shape she can read without confusion. From behind her, the newly opened door exhales a cold draft that smells of pine and old paper. The crow hops to the edge of the sill, tilts its head toward the dark hallway beyond the door, then looks back at Mira as if waiting for a decision.