The girl straightens and moves to the woodpile, keeping her eyes on the crow. The fox doesn't retreat — it simply watches. The logs are rough and uneven; she digs her boots between them and hauls herself up, palms scraping bark. From the top, the lane opens in both directions: tall grass, wet stone walls, a bend in the distance. She follows the crow's pale gaze. Just before the bend, a figure moves away at an unhurried pace — tall, lean, in a long oilcloth coat and wide-brimmed hat, silver hair just visible at the collar. Too far to call to. Almost gone. The crow's taloned foot shifts on the wall's edge, slow and deliberate. Below, the fox is very still. The figure doesn't look back — but as they step around the bend, one gloved hand rises slightly, as if in quiet acknowledgment of being seen.