The girl tilts her face up toward the mill's peak beam, where the dark shape perches like a carved finial. She calls out — not the forgotten word, but a plea shaped like one, her voice still raw from the speaking. For a long breath, nothing moves. Then the crow drops soundlessly to the top of the millstone, barely an arm's reach away. Up close its feathers shift between black and midnight blue, and she sees the silver band on its left leg, etched with marks too fine for this light. Ember Fox does not flinch, but its amber eyes narrow. The crow opens its beak — and speaks: one sentence, a voice like the turn of a locked key. She understands every word, but their meaning rearranges the morning around her. Now she must decide what to do with what she's heard.