The Watcher in the Eucalyptus
The crow knew before the wind did.
It perched high in the eucalyptus, black eyes reflecting the indigo hush of evening. Below, a figure wavered between shadow and form, their edges blurring like ink in water. They moved slowly, hesitantly, as if afraid to disturb the quiet.
Branches whispered. The air smelled of rain that hadn't yet fallen.
The figure reached out, fingers trembling—not in fear, but in recognition.
The crow did not move. It only watched, as it always had. The myths called this place a crossing, a place where time folded like wings mid-flight. The figure’s outstretched hand hovered over nothing, yet the space between them pulsed with something ancient.
A knowing passed between them. Not words. Not even thoughts. Just a brief, trembling understanding.
Then, like mist unraveling in the morning, the figure faded, dissolving into the sepia dusk.
The crow let out a single, solemn cry and took to the sky.
