When She Walked With Crows

Morning Light and Broken Steps

Silas reached Anwen’s house faster than he expected — faster than should’ve been possible. The forest seemed to guide him again, nudging him along with shifting branches and soft rustles, like it remembered him from yesterday.

He stepped into the clearing, breathless, tools clattering in his hands.

Anwen was already outside.

She stood on the porch, hair loose around her shoulders, a mug of tea warming her fingers. Ink perched on the railing beside her, feathers sleek and alert.

When she saw Silas, her eyes widened in surprise — then softened.

“You came early,” she said.

Silas shrugged, trying to play it cool even though he’d practically sprinted through the woods. “Yeah. Figured we could start before it gets too hot.”

Ink cawed once, as if calling him out.

Silas glared at the bird. “Don’t start.”

Anwen laughed — that soft, startled sound that had kept him awake half the night — and Silas felt something warm settle under his ribs.

He cleared his throat and pointed at the porch. “So… the steps.”

Anwen nodded, stepping aside so he could inspect them. Up close, the damage was worse than he thought — one board cracked clean through, another sagging dangerously.

“How long has it been like this?” he asked.

“A while,” she admitted. “I don’t use the front much.”

Silas knelt, running his fingers along the splintered wood. “You could’ve gotten hurt.”

Anwen’s smile was small, almost shy. “I’m careful.”

“Still,” Silas muttered, “you shouldn’t have to be.”

He set to work, pulling out nails, prying up broken boards, measuring the supports. His dad’s instructions echoed in his head, steady and sure. Replace the cracked board. Reinforce the loose one. Check the frame. Don’t rush.

Anwen sat nearby, sipping her tea, watching him with quiet curiosity.

“You’re good at this,” she said.

Silas snorted. “I’m good at breaking things. Fixing them is new.”

Ink hopped closer, tapping Silas’s boot with his beak.

“See?” Silas said. “Even he agrees.”

Anwen laughed again — brighter this time — and Silas felt his ears warm.

They fell into an easy rhythm. Silas worked. Anwen talked softly. Ink supervised like a tiny, judgmental foreman.

At one point, Silas misjudged a nail and smacked his thumb.

“Ow—!”

Ink cawed in what sounded suspiciously like laughter.

“Don’t encourage him,” Silas grumbled.

Anwen covered her mouth, shoulders shaking. “Sorry. I’m not laughing at you.”

“You absolutely are.”

She crinkled her nose at him — that tiny, playful expression that had haunted his dreams — and Silas felt his heart stutter.

He looked away quickly, pretending to focus on the board.

By midday, the steps were solid again — sturdy, safe, no longer a hazard waiting to happen.

Silas stood, wiping sweat from his forehead. “There. Try it.”

Anwen stepped onto the newly fixed board. It didn’t creak. Didn’t shift. Didn’t threaten to collapse.

Her smile bloomed — soft, warm, grateful.

“It’s perfect,” she said.

Silas felt something flutter in his chest. “Good.”

She hesitated, then added, “Thank you. Really.”

He shrugged, suddenly shy. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” she said quietly. “No one’s helped me like this in a long time.”

Silas didn’t know what to say to that. So he didn’t.

Instead, he gathered his tools, trying to ignore the way her words settled into him like roots.

Anwen stepped closer. “Will you stay for lunch?”

Silas blinked. “Lunch?”

She nodded. “I made bread this morning. And there’s stew left from last night.”

His stomach growled loudly enough that Ink tilted his head in judgment.

Silas sighed. “Okay. Yeah. Lunch sounds good.”

Anwen’s smile brightened — just a little — and she turned toward the door.

As Silas followed her inside, the forest rustled behind him, warm and approving.

waiting for what came next.