CHAPTER 6: HELLISH CROW
Suryel paused mid-step and looked around.
Cars still passed somewhere beyond hearing.
Wind still moved smoke, aroma drifted to her nose and the breeze tugged at hanging merchandise along the street, cold kissing the back of her neck.
The hum of electricity continued its patient work through walls and wires on the billboards above.
She frowned at nothing in particular, then kept walking.
By the time she reached home, the feeling had followed her like a missing limb.
She greeted her older brother, the human one.
The kind-strict-fun kind.
The kind who explained homework with diagrams and rules and made sure she ate vegetables before dessert.
They ate dinner together at the small table under the warm white light.
Her father talked about traffic.
Her mother complained about prices.
Someone laughed.
People buzzed and rambled about news on TV.
Suryel listened and responded on cue.
Afterward, she washed the dishes, finished her lab report, double-checked her research citations, and prepared for bed.
Every action landed correctly.
Every task completed.
The clock was still gone.
She stood at her window like she always did before turning the light off.
Outside, the city breathed.
Headlights stitched thin glowing threads along the highway visible past the rooftops.
Somewhere below, a motorbike revved too loudly.
Somewhere else, a neighbor shut a window.
The wind moved strangely, like a door opening where there should not have been one.
Suryel felt it then.
Not fear exactly.
More like caution.
The kind animals have before storms.
A thought drifted into her mind, uninvited and precise. “If I stop, the world will continue to turn. Even without me.”
She did not argue with it.
She only stared at the stars and the waning moon, the sleeping city laid out beneath her like something borrowed.
An insect battered itself against her desk lamp, its wings tapping a low, persistent hum. The sound startled her back into her body.
She shook her head, clicked the light off, and crawled into bed.
Somewhere in the dark, a crow cawed.
Feathers shifted.
Something watched.
Then the glass fogged.
A breath pressed against the outside of her window, slow and deliberate.
A handprint bloomed in the condensation.
Samael’s teeth gleamed through the glass.
And behind him, barely perceptible, a shadow flickered along the alley.
Too fast for human sight, too deliberate for coincidence.
A faint, cold awareness brushed the edge of her mind.
Azriel— Distant, calm, somewhere beyond the city, observing the balance of things.
He felt it too. Not intervening, only noting.
He reminded himself, there are rules.
For three days and three nights after that, Suryel did not dream.
She woke again and again unable to move, pinned to the mattress by an invisible weight.
Each sleep left her more exhausted than the one before it.
Her body rested, her mind did not.
On the fourth morning, she startled awake to the sound of a crow.
It was not just outside.
It was everywhere, in the periphery of her hearing, in the small taps of glass and gutters— An echo of its earlier presence.
She groaned softly and sat up, eyes still closed, searching for her slippers with her feet.
The floor was cool.
Too cool for how warm the air felt.
Sunlight streamed through the embroidered green lace curtain.
She pushed it aside and opened the window.
Morning air poured in, carrying both warmth and cold.
The sun brushed her face, returning a little color to her cheeks.
She leaned into it, letting herself smile.
Across the way, their neighbor’s urban garden thrived.
Tomato vines bowed under their own red abundance.
Greens crowded every container, alive and stubborn.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Like a small picture frame of life.
Suryel inhaled deeply and caught the faint scent of the sea riding the breeze.
Then movement tugged at the corner of her vision.
A crow perched on the opposite building, black against concrete and sky, head tilted as it peered directly back at her.
Its eyes held something sharper than curiosity, a weight she could feel pressing through the distance, a silent reminder.
Three days.
And it had not moved.
She blinked, then laughed under her breath.
“Well, good morning, Mr. Crow.” Suryel said softly, resting her elbows on the sill. “Are you lost?”
The crow did not move.
“I’ve seen you there for… Three days now.” She added, concern threading her voice. “Wait here. I got snacks you should like.”
She turned and ran to her closet, digging through her school bag.
She had thought about the bird during class yesterday, its sharp eyes following her from the rooftops, and bought dried bird feed on the way home.
She muttered to herself as she searched, scolding her own memory.
She did not hear her brother at first.
The family dog began scratching at her door, nails clicking anxiously against the floor, a low whine in its throat.
The door to her room opened silently.
“What are you doing?” Her brother asked, arms crossed, suspicion already fully formed.
His eyes flicked to the feed in her hands. “Why do you have bird food? Tell me. Are you hiding another rescue in your closet again?”
Suryel startled, then grinned.
“No! Well, not hiding. Look!” She hurried to the window, setting a small bowl of seeds and mealworms outside on the sill. “It’s a crow. Kuya, right there!”
Her brother leaned out and squinted. “Huh. Yeah. That’s a crow.”
He frowned slightly, eyebrow raised. “Looks bigger than the usual ones.”
Then he straightened, scolding already loaded. “Stop feeding wildlife! What if it gets used to you and tries to come inside?”
Suryel clasped her hands behind her back, like pride was rocking on her heels. “I’ll be Snow White?”
He groaned and smacked her lightly between the shoulders. “You’re going to give Mom a heart attack. If you want to be a Disney princess, be Cinderella. Go buy pandesal!”
They laughed.
The dog barked once, as if relieved.
The morning resumed.
She ate breakfast with her family, attention drawn to the TV.
Rushed by her mom she put on her white uniform, bid goodbye to family.
She joined the tide of commuters moving with practiced resilience through the city.
In class, she took notes, answered questions, stayed awake through sheer will.
Sometimes, she glanced behind her.
Her shadowy friend was gone.
For three days, it had not followed her.
At the end of the school day, she waved goodbye to her friends.
Merged back into the rush, walked the last quiet street home.
Wake. Live. Sleep. Repeat.
!TRIGGER WARNING!! Please skip to the Next Chapter.
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From this author, to the readers: The world will not be the same without you.
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That night, she woke and sat upright in bed.
The city roared outside, but the quiet inside her room remained intact.
Too intact.
The air pressed wrong, heavy with the promise of a storm that refused to break.
Just the feeling of pressure in the air being wrong before the storm breaks.
She swung her bare feet onto the floor.
Even the ground felt offended by the movement, cold and silent.
Suryel stared at her reflection in the mirror across the room.
And felt the weight of her humanity.
She dropped her blanket and pillow on the floor and walked to the medicine cabinet.
The family dog crouched beneath the dining table, whimpering softly, eyes tracking her every step.
She did not feel anything as she swallowed and felt the bitterness in her throat.
No panic. No relief. Just procedure. The cabinet closed quietly.
As she passed the other doors in the house, they loomed like witnesses, dark, screaming and voiceless, full of sleeping people who loved her.
She returned to her room like a silent shadow, shut the door without a sound, and laid in bed.
The void above her felt awake.
It felt like apathy had grown eyes and was smiling down from the ceiling, heavy and intimate.
Somewhere, just beyond sight, a crow tapped its beak against the edge of the rooftop, watching, waiting, a silent signal threaded through the night.
Azriel’s distant awareness hummed faintly at the edges of possibility.
He did not intervene. But he was tense as he noted.
Suryel whispered a prayer as her eyes close.
And her view of the world dimmed.
