It was still raining the next morning. Not a storm this time but more of a soft, steady drizzle that hung in the air like a sigh.
I stayed curled on the witch's windowsill, feathers tucked, and beak resting lightly against my chest. The wood was warm from the fire, and every now and then, a soft breeze would waft in, carrying the smell of ever-living lavender and bread.
I could've stayed like that forever.
And I almost did… until something prodded my side.
I squawked and flared my wings. Not dramatically. Just… enough to express mild but deeply felt offense.
The culprit?
A spoon.
Balanced perfectly in the mouth of the witch's black cat.
He stared at me, eyes slitted and unamused, and gently tapped me with the spoon again.
Clink.
I stared back.
The spoon fell.
"So," the cat said in a slow, gravel-smooth voice, "this is what she dragged in."
Yup. Talking cat. I probably should've seen that coming.
"I didn't realize birds came in pathetic now," he added, followed by a slow, raspy laugh.
I chirped with as much dignity as a damp bird could muster.
The cat leapt gracefully onto the sill beside me, tail curling with a predator's elegance. He eyed me like someone judging a pastry that had fallen flat.
"She likes you," he said at last. "The witch. That's rare."
I tilted my head.
"She doesn't like most people. Most people want something. Be spells, cures, or secrets. You just want to nap, and she oddly finds that charming."
He sniffed, unimpressed.
"I find it... suspicious."
I pecked at a nearby crumb. Slowly. Deliberately.
He narrowed his eyes.
The witch entered before things escalated to feather-based violence.
"Play nice, Fig," she said, dropping a folded towel on the chair beside the hearth.
"Always do," the cat replied, curling his tail tighter.
She didn't even look up as she poured tea. "I saw the spoon."
"Symbolic gesture."
"It's breakfast, not war."
I chirped in agreement.
Fig grumbled something about "standards slipping" and leapt down.
The witch smiled and set a fresh plate on the sill. This time: a small, warm disc of bread with a swirl of something dark and shiny baked into it.
"Try this," she said. "Sourdough with plum and basil."
I gave her a skeptical look. Plum I understood. Basil?
But one bite in, and I forgot every concern I'd ever had.
Soft. Tangy. Slightly herbal in a way that felt like breathing in spring air after a rain. The kind of flavor that made you pause and go, Oh. The kind that made you want to live a little longer just to eat it again.
The witch chuckled as I fluffed and chirped excitedly between bites.
"I'm testing new combinations," she said. "The forest's changed lately. More color in the mushrooms. Flowers are blooming early. Fig thinks it's your fault."
I paused mid-chew.
"I said suspicious," the cat mumbled from under the chair.
"Same thing," she replied, sipping her tea.
She looked at me over the rim of her mug. "You don't feel it? Like the forest is… shifting?"
I blinked.
Now that she mentioned it, yes. The moss somehow felt greener, I couldn't explain it but, trees seemed to lean in more when I passed. The birdsong had changed too: lighter, almost melodic, like it was trying to harmonize with me.
I chirped. Uncertain.
"It's not bad," she said. "Just new."
She stood, brushing crumbs from her apron. "The world listens, little soul. Especially to those it hasn't heard in a while."
That afternoon, I followed the witch around the cottage. Not for any particular reason. I just liked being near her. There was something steady about her presence and the way she moved through space without rushing, the way her hands knew exactly where everything belonged.
She showed me her herb shelf. Let me sit on her shoulder while she made jam. Even offered me a thimble of honey tea when I looked particularly sulky after slipping off a shelf and into a bag of flour.
Fig watched me the entire time like I was some sort of art project that kept making the wrong choices.
At one point, he padded into the kitchen, sat beside the witch's foot, and said, "It's going to rain harder tonight. You'll need a new roof."
"Already working on it," she said, gesturing toward a stack of wood beside the door. "If you help, I'll give you extra biscuits."
"I want stew."
"You'll get soup."
Fig sighed. "Fine."
As night fell, I returned to the windowsill, full of crumbs and belly full.
The witch sat beside the fire with her journal, one hand idly petting Fig, who pretended not to like it.
Outside, the rain began again, heavier this time, steady and sure, like a heartbeat against the roof.
Inside, everything was warm.
Safe.
Still.
I watched the flames dance in the hearth and let my eyes drift closed, wings tucking tighter around my sides.
I didn't know what I was supposed to do in this world.
I didn't know if I was special. Or magical. Or chosen.
All I knew was this:
I was here.
I was alive.
And I was just very happy to be doing mundane things with this weird little witch.