Morning in the village didn't come with birdsong.
Just gossip.
Whispers carried faster than wind.
> "She's feeding children now. Must be fattening them for a ritual."
"I saw smoke from her hut. Maybe she's summoning something."
"Burn it down. She'll curse us all."
She heard it all.
The woman walked to the stream with a cracked pot in her hands. Eyes followed her from behind windows and stall curtains. No one spoke to her — not directly. But they spoke loud enough for her to hear.
> "Witch."
"Curse-bringer."
"Whore of shadow."
She didn't flinch. She never did.
The stream ran red with mud. The water had turned thick overnight. No one would say it aloud, but they'd already decided it was her fault. Again.
She dipped the pot in, hands steady, and turned to leave.
A stone hit her shoulder.
Then another.
She didn't look back.
She walked home — bruised, bleeding, silent.
---
Back in the hut, the crow still perched in the rafters. Watching. Always watching. Its feathers didn't shine like normal ones — they drank the light around them.
That night, she felt… strange.
The air in the hut was colder than outside. Her fingers trembled as she tried to sleep.
She pulled her tattered blanket tight.
Then came the pain.
A pulse — low in her stomach. Faint, but sharp. Like something shifting inside her.
She gasped.
She wasn't sick. Not like this.
She clutched her belly.
> Impossible.
She had never… never been with a man. No touches. No lovers. Not even in dreams.
Then what was this feeling?
---
Outside, the wind howled louder.
Something unseen brushed past the hut's door.
And behind her, the crow croaked once — like it had seen everything.
The woman looked up, eyes wide, chest rising in panic.
She whispered a prayer she hadn't used since childhood.
> But no god answered.