The antique birdcage hung from a rusty hook, its brass bars glinting faintly in the moonlight. Inside, a single feather lay motionless—a ghost of the creature that once inhabited it. Old Man Hemming’s, his face etched with time, shuffled towards it, a bottle of whiskey clutched in his gnarled hand.
He poured a generous measure, the amber liquid swirling in the glass. “To you, my friend,” he croaked, raising the glass to the empty cage. “To the memories.”
A sudden gust rattled the windows, and a mournful cry echoed from the nearby graveyard. Hemming’s shivered, not from the cold, but from the memory of that cry—the cry of Corvus, his raven.
Corvus had been his only companion. They had shared secrets, whispered conspiracies, and, Hemming’s swore, even debated the nature of reality itself. But then Corvus had flown away—vanished without a trace, leaving only the cage and the haunting silence.
Hemming’s took a long, shuddering gulp of whiskey. The silence was deafening, the emptiness unbearable. His gaze fell on the feather, now trembling slightly. A chill ran down his spine. Corvus wasn’t gone. He was watching.
The wind picked up again, carrying a soft whisper. Hemming’s turned, his eyes scanning the shadows of the room, heart pounding. From the corner of the room, a faint glimmer caught his eye—a shadow darting past the window.
He stared at the birdcage. The feather wasn’t alone anymore. A single obsidian eye, gleaming in the dark, met his own. Corvus had come home.
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Immanuel Mwendwa Kiilu is a writer with the African Coalition for Development and has earned several awards in writing, most recently as one of the 26 best submissions in the UNODC/GRACE Essay Writing Competition 2024. He is also a writing fellow at the 2024/2025 African Liberty Writing Fellowship.
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