The girl goes perfectly still, her breathing shallow. The crow's pale silver eyes hold hers without blinking — not the blank stare of a common bird but something deliberate, waiting. She notices, for the first time, the thin silver band on its left leg catching the faint light. The silence stretches. Then the crow dips its head once, a motion too precise to be accidental, and opens its beak. Something falls: a small scrap of paper, folded tight, pale against the dark doorframe, fluttering down to rest just inside the ajar back door. The crow resettles, closes its beak, and watches her again — still as carved wood. The paw prints in the ash trail toward that same threshold. The paper lies waiting in the gap.