crows
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The forest offers no neat explanation for disappearance, only the quiet truth that not every traveler is brave enough to say goodbye.
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The village feared the crows; she listened to them, carrying feathers, wildness, and a name older than the one she was given.
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The women they called dangerous were often simply the ones who learned to survive without asking permission.
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At three in the morning, the world goes quiet enough for old houses, moonlight, and sleepless women to remember each other’s names.
Between Bruises & Blooms 