Mira snatches the nearest scrap of paper — an old receipt, still warm from her pocket — and scrawls the word before it can dissolve like breath on a cold morning. The ink looks ordinary. The word does not. Even as she reads it back, the letters seem to shift, rearranging themselves into something slightly different each time, as though the word refuses to be pinned down. The candle on her desk gutters despite the still air. Outside, a crow lands on the windowsill and tilts its head, fixing her with one glossy eye, as if it knows exactly what she has written. Somewhere deep in the house, a door she has never noticed before creaks open on its own. Mira holds the receipt in both hands, her heart loud in her ears, and considers what to do next.