At the break of dawn, as the forest takes its first breaths, light slips through the thick branches like shy threads searching for meaning. The cawing of crows rises, broken and jagged, like chants of some ritual humans can't understand. In a circle of dirt, surrounded by dozens of crows, a single raven stands in the middle, taking pecks from the others. It doesn't resist. It falls, motionless.
From above, feathers drift slowly through the air, as if saying goodbye to a body that no longer belongs. The image fades gradually, and dawn begins to stretch across the sky.
On a trembling branch, a barely-hatched raven struggles to stand. The wind blows, shaking the twigs—he falls from the nest, before hitting the ground.
Ebiel wakes up in a panic, drenched in sweat, gasping like he just ran a marathon inside his own body. The nightmare everyone knows—the fall from high places—felt different this time. Sharper, more real, more painful.
He steadies his breathing and heads to the bathroom. Cold water slaps against his skin, as if he's trying to wash something invisible off. Wrapped in a towel, he returns to his bedroom, dresses slowly, then notices something on his balcony.
A small, dead bird.
A sharp ringing fills his ears, like something left him and came back, like his body had never truly belonged to him.
He picks it up and steps into the garden. He digs a small hole, lays the bird in it, covers it with soil, and stands there for a moment, silent.
Then he whispers:
"Were you dreaming too? Or were you just born to fall? Was it me? Or you? Or are we just reflections of each other?"
He sifts the soil through his fingers, speaking softly:
"Was it me? Or was it you? Or are we just echoes of one another?"
Ebiel pauses, a faint, bitter smile creeping onto his lips, then walks away…