The Girl Who Fed the Crows

She was born during a storm.

The kind that tears branches from trees and names from mouths. Her mother held her only once before vanishing into the mist — some say willingly, others say taken by the wind itself. They raised the girl in silence, fed her soft food and softer lies.

“She is delicate,” they whispered.

“She must be kept clean. Kept quiet. Kept safe.”

But she was not delicate.

She was watching.

Always watching.

From the edge of windows. From under the table. From behind closed doors when they thought she was asleep. And what she saw was this: truth was always hidden. Buried beneath pleasantries. Coated in sugar and shame.

So she stopped asking questions.

And started feeding crows.

Every day after dusk, she crept to the edge of the forest with bits of bread, bones, and berries tucked into her apron. The crows came, wary at first. Then curious. Then loyal.

They watched her, too.

When she cried, they cried with her. When she bled (and oh, how girls are made to bleed), they circled overhead like black halos. They brought her gifts — a shard of mirror, a lost earring, a rusted key.

One night, she followed them.

Deep into the forest, where even the bravest hunters would not tread. There, in a clearing where no wind stirred, stood a throne made of branches, feathered in black and silver.

The largest crow landed on its arm.

“Sit,” it said.

Not in words — but in ache, in instinct. In the bone-deep knowing that she had finally arrived where she belonged.

She sat.

And the forest did not shudder. It bowed.

The crown was not placed. It grew — from her hair, from her ribs, from the ruin she had survived. A crown of crow-feathers and fireflies, of memories and marrow. She did not smile.

She remembered.

And in the remembering, she became more.

She returned to the village with midnight in her eyes. Her voice no longer soft. Her back no longer bent.

The people didn’t recognize her.

They called her “wild.”

“Cursed.”

“Wrong.”

She said nothing.

She simply opened her hands — and crows came to perch there.

They whispered her name in every chimney, every attic, every child’s lullaby. Not as a warning, but a promise.

If they silence you, we will carry your voice.

If they forget you, we will write your name in sky.

And when girls weep at night, whispering “I want out,”

the crows come.

They leave trails of feathers. Bones shaped like keys. Maps made of stars.

And somewhere, deep in a forest that no map dares mark,

a throne waits.

Not for royalty.

For rage.

For remembrance.

For the girl who will feed the crows until they call her Queen.

Image Description (for AI generation):

A mysterious young woman in a dark cloak, standing in a moonlit forest clearing surrounded by a circle of crows. She wears a crown made of black feathers and glowing fireflies, and her eyes reflect the night sky. A wooden throne covered in moss and feathers stands behind her. The atmosphere is magical, eerie, and empowering — filled with symbolism, shadow, and strength. The sky above is ink-dark with faint stars, and crows fly in slow circles overhead.