The next morning was strangely quiet. Sunlight spilled through the thin curtains, brushing Sarah's face with warmth. She rose early, whispered a prayer for her mother's safety, and for just one day where everything could be peaceful.
After a long, cool bath, she went downstairs. The silence of the house pressed in on her, so she cooked—more out of habit than hunger. The smell of food filled the kitchen, and for a fleeting moment, it almost felt like a normal Sunday.
Still restless, Sarah picked up a water bottle and stepped outside. The air was bright, too bright, as if the world had no right to feel so cheerful when everything inside her was unraveling. She walked slowly, staring into the clear plastic bottle in her hand as though it held answers.
Then—thud.
She bumped into someone, and groceries tumbled across the pavement. Apples rolled, a loaf of bread landed in the dust. Sarah bent down quickly, fumbling to gather the scattered items.
"I'm so sorry—I'm really, really sorry," she repeated breathlessly.
But when she looked up, her heart skipped. It was the old woman. That old woman—the one who had once warned her father about the scarecrow.
Sarah froze, realizing too late that the scarf she used to cover her arm had slipped. The mark, pale and strange, was bared.
The woman's face went white as chalk. Her lips parted, trembling, her eyes fixed on Sarah's arm as if she had just glimpsed a ghost. She snatched the groceries back with shaking hands.
"I told him… I told him to stay away from that scarecrow," the old woman whispered, almost choking on the words. Then, without waiting, she hurried off, muttering frantically under her breath.
Sarah stood stunned. "Wait—what do you mean?" she called after her. But the woman only quickened her pace, her back bent, her whispers lost in the wind.
Before Sarah could chase her, another voice called softly behind her.
"Sarah?"
She turned—and without thinking, she threw her arms around him. Adrian.
For a moment, the warmth of another person melted her fear. She didn't know why she hugged him—maybe because she needed someone, anyone.
Adrian chuckled, teasing, "Miss me already?"
Flustered, she pushed him back. "Don't flatter yourself. I just… wanted to."
He smiled, but then his eyes dropped to her arm. The mark. "I thought you always liked to keep that hidden."
Sarah quickly tugged her scarf back over it. "I do. It just… slipped."
They walked together, falling into easy conversation. For a while, it felt normal. They spoke of dreams and futures—Adrian saying he wanted a life worth living, a wife who understood him. Sarah said she wanted nothing more than a happy family, smiles around the table, warmth she had long forgotten.
Adrian's voice lowered, almost playful but edged with sincerity. "Then maybe I'll need a wife like you."
Sarah's cheeks burned, but she turned her face away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her blush.
By evening, they parted ways at a small café. Sarah lingered for a moment, watching him go, her heart strangely light. But the feeling didn't last.
When she turned back toward home, her breath caught. Across the field, the scarecrow stood—its crooked head tilted toward her house, its stitched face frozen in an eternal stare. And yet, she felt it. It was watching her.
An invisible pull tugged at her chest. Her feet began moving on their own, as if the scarecrow was silently calling her closer, whispering without sound. She was halfway across the grass when—
"Sarah!"
Her mother's voice snapped her back. Sarah spun around, startled, and saw her mother at the door.
She ran to her, hugging her tightly, but anger spilled out in her words. "Why did you come home late? What's happening to you? Why are you like this?"
Her mother trembled, pressing her lips to Sarah's hair. "I'm sorry. But please—don't go to that field again. Don't."
She grabbed Sarah's hand, dragged her inside, and locked the door. For a second, just before the latch clicked, Sarah's mum thought she saw it—through the corner of her eye, the scarecrow's head shifting, facing her window.
She blinked. It was gone.
But her heart wouldn't stop racing.
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