[[File:Messenger_of_death.jpg|thumb]]

She is but a child, the mere age of three. New to the world, still learning the basics of life. She will grow to be a beautiful young lady as she grows and matures, her dark, silky curls stretching down to the upper quarter of her back, her olive skin soft and smooth as a calm ocean. Her smile will warm the hearts of any who catch it in their gaze. Her character alone will earn her many allies and very few enemies. She will be loved, and at the age of twenty-seven she will marry the man she will spend the rest of her life with. At twenty-nine she will give birth to her first children and will raise them to be respectable adults, watching in awe as their lives move so quickly. She will have it all, and me? Oh, I'll be watching. And she will notice me every once in a while, giving me a glance and nothing more. Yet as her life nears its end, I shall come and visit her more and more often, she will never be truly alone; that is her greatest fear, after all, loneliness. I am to keep her company in her last, fading hours, it is my job, after all. She will die at the age of fifty-three of cervical cancer on October the eighth, 1884 while on a steam-train to see a doctor about her illness, something unknown in their knowledge of medicine. Every once in a while throughout her life, I will fly by just to let her know I'm there, and that she is not alone. I will drop one of my jet black, smooth feathers nearby her as a sign that i will always be here. A sign she will never understand. But that is okay, because on the last day of her life, after her husband dies five years earlier in the War of the Pacific and her children are leading their own lives, leaving her alone on the loud train ride where she will die, she will not truly be alone. I will fly up to the window right outside her seat and crow, maybe peck the window for good measure. She will look over and notice me sitting there, gazing at her and her look of sorrow for her loneliness will leave her body as her spirit will two minutes later, at 6:41 pm, and be replaced with a look of content to know that she is not alone in her last minutes. She will smile, close her eyes, and die in her sleep. The window will be opened by someone working on the train to shoo me away. "Go on, stupid crow! No room for your kind on this train!" and the window will be open just long enough for her soul to escape, and for me to deliver it to the afterlife. And I will continue my job, moving on to the next person, as all crows do. Watching souls in life, delivering them in death.
[[Category:Animals]]