When She Walked With Crows

Chapter Thirteen — The Storm That Kept Him Home

Silas woke to the sound of rain hammering the roof like a thousand fists.

For a moment he lay still, blinking into the dim morning light. The world outside his window was a blur of gray and motion — sheets of rain slanting sideways, wind bending the trees until their branches scraped the siding.

Then he heard it.

The river.

Not its usual soft rush, but a deep, rolling roar.

His stomach tightened.

He sat up fast.

“Dad?” he called, already pulling on his boots.

His dad’s voice came from the front room, strained. “Silas! Get down here — the river’s rising!”

Silas hurried down the stairs. The moment he reached the door, a cold draft hit him. His dad was bracing a board against the bottom frame, water already seeping underneath.

“It came up fast,” his dad said, breathless. “We need to keep it out until the worst passes.”

Silas grabbed another board. “I can help.”

“You better,” his dad muttered, but there was no bite to it — just worry.

Together they worked in the dim morning light, the storm pounding against the house like it wanted in. The river, swollen and furious, had spilled over its banks, turning the yard into a shallow lake. Muddy water lapped at the porch steps.

Silas’s heart thudded.

He’d promised Anwen he’d come back today.

He’d promised.

But even if he tried to reach her clearing now… the forest paths would be flooded. The river crossing would be impossible. The storm was too strong, too dangerous.

He pressed the board into place, jaw tight.

His dad glanced at him. “You’re thinking about that girl.”

Silas froze. “I—”

“It’s written all over your face,” his dad said, not unkindly. “But you’re not going anywhere in this weather. The river’s too high.”

Silas swallowed hard. “I told her I’d come back.”

“And you will,” his dad said firmly. “Just not today.”

Silas looked out at the storm, rain blurring the world into shifting gray. He imagined Anwen inside her little house, shutters rattling, Ink pacing the windowsill. He imagined her waiting, maybe glancing toward the forest path, wondering why he hadn’t come.

A knot formed in his chest.

He hated this feeling — this helplessness.

He hated breaking a promise.

But the storm didn’t care.

The river didn’t care.

Nature had its own rules, and today it had decided he wasn’t leaving.

They worked for hours, reinforcing the door, digging small trenches to redirect the water, checking the windows for leaks. The storm only grew worse, thunder rolling across the valley like distant drums.

By midday, Silas was soaked, exhausted, and restless.

He kept glancing toward the forest.

His dad noticed. “She’ll be fine, Silas. Her place is tucked up higher than ours. The water won’t reach her.”

“I know,” Silas said quietly. “I just… wish I could tell her.”

His dad’s expression softened. “Storms pass. When this one does, you go to her first thing.”

Silas nodded, but the ache didn’t ease.

By the time the rain finally slowed, the sky was a bruised purple, the river still swollen and angry. The paths were mud. The crossing was still impossible.

Silas stood on the porch, staring into the darkening forest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, though she couldn’t hear him.

Ink would be restless. Anwen would be tired. Maybe she’d think he’d changed his mind. Maybe she’d think he didn’t care.

The thought twisted something deep inside him.

Later, lying in bed, Silas listened to the storm’s fading rumble. The house creaked softly, settling after the long fight against the rain.

He closed his eyes.

He felt the brush of her hand against his. He remembered the way she’d said, You’ll come back tomorrow?

He pressed a hand over his chest, the ache sharper tonight.

“I’ll come back,” he whispered into the dark. “As soon as I can.”

Outside, the storm finally began to drift away.

But inside him, something had only just begun