Crow. Sinking into the abyss of night, its wing feathers melted into a darker ink. It is not a shadow, but the gazer of the shadow; perched on a dead branch is a rugged extension of the dead branch. The scarlet eyes are lowered under the hood-like shadow, but they seem to burn through all the curtains - every sluggish breath you take, every moment of dodge, are picked up and weighed by that silent sight. When it doesn't move, the darkness has a heartbeat; when it stares, the silence grows fangs. You look around in panic, only to see the night as usual, but you don't know that you have already been immersed in that boundless gaze, becoming part of the light that is slowly digested by the darkness.
