Part One: The Cat, the Crows, and the Cottage That Wasn’t There Yesterday

 The thread led me past the orchard, down the slope where the blackberry vines grow thick and mean, and straight into the part of the woods that never quite liked me. It’s not that it was malevolent — more like it resented being disturbed. Some places like to be left alone. So naturally, I stomped right in, following that gleaming red line like a fool with a leash to her own doom.

That’s when I saw the cottage.

Except I’d walked this path a hundred times, and it had never been there. Not behind the silver birch, not beyond the crooked stone. It was mossy, thatched, and shaped like a memory someone tried to forget — soft around the edges, like it might dissolve if you stared too hard.

And on the porch sat my cat.

Let me clarify: not a cat that looked like mine. My actual chaos gremlin of a familiar, Belladonna, all black fur and judgmental eyes, sitting on the rail like she owned the place.

“You’re late,” she said. In Latin.

“You know I don’t speak dead languages before tea,” I replied.

She blinked. Switched to English. “Then you’d best go inside. The crows are restless.”

That’s when I noticed them.

Crows. At least a dozen, perched in a perfect circle on the roof, all facing outward like sentries. One hopped down, landed near my feet, and dropped what looked suspiciously like a key made of bone.

“I hate it when they do that,” I muttered.

“Better than entrails,” said Belladonna.

I picked up the key. Cold. Smooth. Old.

And without another word, the door creaked open on its own.

Because of course it did.

I stepped inside.

The smell hit first — rosemary, burnt sugar, and something metallic beneath it all. The kind of scent that triggers memories you’re not sure are yours. A fire crackled in a hearth that wasn’t there a second ago. A kettle whistled from a stove that looked like it hadn’t worked in decades.

And in the rocking chair by the window sat a woman who looked like all my grandmothers rolled into one.

“You brought the thread,” she said, not looking up from her knitting. “Good. We’ve got work to do.”

I opened my mouth to ask a dozen questions.

She raised one hand. “Don’t. Not yet. Sit down. Drink your tea. The crows will explain everything.”

I turned toward the table. Three cups.

One for me. One for her. And one for whatever was about to walk in next.

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Next time: The Bone Key, the Tea Ritual, and a Memory That Wasn’t Mine.