Chapter 1: Shadows of Remembrance

In the dim light of dusk, take a moment to look after the graves — just ensure that everyone remains undisturbed in their eternal slumber. From the porch, stay at a distance and move quietly across the creaking wood. Keep the cats indoors; they have a tendency to dig. Don’t linger too long, for I miss you dearly and worry endlessly. I need you to return and confirm whether the wind still whispers, if the tree has withstood the test of time, if the hill has shifted, and if wildflowers have begun to bloom over the graves. Your presence is essential; I simply need you back.

As I envision you standing beneath the aged gas lamp, your muddy boots from the day's labor, a fatigue resting on your cheek, and your steel-grey hair curling past the nape of your sun-kissed neck, perhaps I can imagine a smile on your lips to humor me. The cats, having slipped by your legs due to your forgetfulness in closing the door, know instinctively that this night isn't meant for them. They won’t stray far.

Do you recall the moment when Tybob proudly returned with a bird, treating it as an ordinary find? He dropped it just inside the doorway, filled with pride over his offering. That was the first sign — a message that should have alerted us to the beginning of the end. Oh, I have far too much time to reflect.

I should have recognized the initial dread, but I dismissed it. I apologize, truly; I had no foresight of what was to come, only a heavy darkness swirling within my heart. A gruesome thing, I thought, yet perhaps it indicated love. The bird bore strange colors, a hue of burgundy-tinged black with a dull grey hood, and a beak as red as blood, with cartoonish crosses marking its eyes. Was it a crow? I disposed of the feathered remains in the outside bin. Now, I can almost hear the sound of wings brushing against the roof as I retreated inside, offering Tybob a prawn from the freezer in gratitude.

The next morning, I discovered the trash can overturned, debris and feathers scattered everywhere, the air thick with a foul odor. The bird's dismembered body lay eerily arranged on the dry-stone wall of the garden. Two live birds perched at either end of the lifeless form, observing intently. Suddenly, two more swooped in, startling me as I instinctively shielded my head with my hands. In total, eleven birds descended in a chaotic whirlwind, creating a grim scene as I attempted to restore order. Family? I mused. Yet, everyone knows the collective term for crows is a "murder," and although it felt fanciful, I resolved to bury the body this time. Only it wasn’t merely "I," but rather a collective "we," as I entrusted the task to you. Was this the moment that sealed our fates? The act of turning the soil beneath the Sorrowful Tree? We had buried many pets there before — it could have been seen as a tribute, not simply a gathering of sorrow.

Now, I believe we lie there, motionless and ghostly, with the tree weeping above us, its roots entwined in our hair, our limbs numb and our hearts void of feeling. They arrived shortly after the burial — the Grey Men. They emerged from the night, as silent as mist, cloaked in the insignia of the birds. The end came swiftly, with throats slit before terror could take hold, even Tybob and Maebean fell victim. I still cannot grasp our transgression; was it the cat being a cat? The tree simply being a tree? Whatever the case, we are condemned.

Days later, the children discovered us, tearing at their clothes and hair, wailing into the wind, their arms and fists flailing like branches in a storm. They shrank into themselves, tight and small.

They constructed our graves and then left, pursuing the Grey Men, those peculiar hooded birds with blood-stained beaks; but to what purpose? In their search, their cries, and their intense hatred, only loneliness prevails. With so much animosity in their hearts, where is the space for connection? Where is the room for life? The living are not meant for the dead, nor we for them, except as memories. Why not cherish the joyful ones? Are their lives also stolen — by cruelty and bitterness?

I know you rest beside me — even in anger, our children would have been sweet. Yet, we cannot touch, nor can we see the tree bending toward us. Here in this house, as specters or mere memories, perhaps we can find a way? I am present, so you must be too? Unless you have ventured to pull hair, howl, and seek vengeance? No, that would not be your nature. Rather, you would have chosen to keep busy, to complete all the chores. So please, check on the graves, ensure we are resting peacefully, then come back inside to be with me once more.

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