I whistled again that morning.
It was rough. Very far from perfect. Only three notes that barely carried past the trees, but it was still mine. I had found something in my throat that wasn't silence.
And for once, I didn't feel like keeping it to myself.
I needed to tell her.
The witch. The one who brewed calm into tea leaves and stitched warmth into everything she did. I flapped off from the branch, heart light, wings steady, and sailed toward the cottage window, the one she usually kept open just wide enough for me. I am most excited to tell her of my progress.
I landed on the sill outside, cold stone under my feet. The scent of cinnamon and ash in the air.
I was about to tap on the glass with my beak when I saw her.
She was seated at the table, unmoving, her back straight but her eyes lowered. A letter lay open in her hands, paper trembling faintly at the edges.
Her face… wasn't like I'd ever seen it.
Not stern. But so soft and so just… distant. Hollowed out. The kind of sadness that just sits, unsure if it wants to break out.
She blinked, wiped at her cheek as if brushing away dust, and slowly folded the letter. She slipped it beneath a thick, leather-bound book with one motion, like she'd done it before.
When she looked up and saw me, her smile was immediate.
"Well," she said, opening the window as if nothing was wrong, "you've got that look. Don't tell me you finally cracked a note?"
I chirped, quieter than I'd intended.
She nodded playfully. "Knew you would. Took you long enough. Fig had a bet you'd do it in a week."
From the hearth, Fig let out a groaning mewl. Whether in protest or agreement, I couldn't tell.
"I insist that we celebrate! Let me get my finest tea and come cake"
After an hour or so of her scampering around the kitchen, she came out with a tray held up two glasses of tea and a delicious smelling golden brown circle cake.
The witch poured a sweet honey-drizzled tea and offered me crumbs from a hurriedly baked cake. Asked if I'd nested properly last night. Everything felt like normal.
Except it obviously wasn't.
Later, when the fire was low and the windows fogged, she stepped into the next room to fetch some more wood. Fig snored deeply beside the fire, paws twitching.
I flew to the table.
The book was thick, but not heavy. I nudged it aside and pulled the folded paper free with my beak. It opened easily.
Some seal was pressed at the top in faded red ink. The rest read like it had been written by a machine.
---
Subject: Notification of Deceased Kin (MOTHER)
This letter serves to inform you of the death of High Magister Althea Vire. Cremation was carried out in accordance with Imperial Mage rites.
Your attendance was not requested. Your name remains stricken from the House Registry.
---
That was it.
No condolences. No message. No mention of "daughter." Just closure by bureaucracy.
I didn't know this Althea. But I knew what it felt like to be treated as an afterthought. I knew what it meant to be forgotten on purpose.
The paper trembled in my claws. I heard the floorboards creak.
"You could've just asked," she said softly behind me.
I froze.
She didn't sound angry, which hopefully meant I wasn't on the dinner menu.
I turned. She walked slowly to the table, pulled out the chair, and sat.
"No secrets in a cottage this small, little friend" she added.
We sat in silence for a while. Fig snored on.
She looked at the letter, then at me. Her expression was unreadable.
"My mother," she said finally, "was the High Mage of a beautiful city to the east of this forest. A brilliant woman who was feared, respected, and precise. She wanted me to follow her path and become an imperial mage, wear the crown's sigil, and keep the family name pristine."
She smiled, humorless. "I wanted to talk to frogs and charm soup pots."
I tilted my head.
"She disowned me when I left the Arcanum," she continued. "Said I was throwing away centuries of tradition for dirt and smoke. That I was wasting a 'blessed lineage and talent.' I told her I'd rather waste it than become her."
Her hands were folded in her lap now, shivering ever so slightly.
"I never thought she'd call me back," she said. "But I thought… maybe, someday… she'd soften. Even a little."
She exhaled slowly.
"She died without ever asking me to come home."
I tilted my head again. I didn't understand, if it was so bitter, so distant, why did she look like she was about to break?
She saw it in my eyes.
"She was still my mother, little bird" she said. "Even if the love got buried under duty and disappointment. Even if she never tried to reach out. She was still someone very dear to me."
A pause.
"I didn't want her forgiveness," she said quietly. "I just… wanted one more day. To sit beside her and know she saw me. Even if she didn't understand."
The words hung in the air, soft and heavy.
Then, slowly, she stood.
"I'm going to pay my respects," she said. "There's a grove past the edge of the wood. They bury imperial mages there."
She moved to the door, pulling on her cloak.
She didn't ask me to come.
But I flapped once, twice, and landed gently on her shoulder.
She looked at me, surprised. Then smiled, small and real.
"Alright," she said. "I wouldn't mind the company."
We stepped into the mist together.