Harold Thompson, an elderly man who owns a small garden, sits each day on his creaky wooden bench at the edge of his property to sip a cup of tea. In his hands, he always holds a crust of bread, which he gently offers to a crow that perches on the rusted gatepost. The crow, now familiar with his routine, waits patiently for Harold’s arrival, recognizing his kind face. Every morning, the same ritual unfolds: Harold takes his seat, and the crow flies down to accept the treat.
As the seasons change, Harold keeps feeding the crow. But one cold morning, the crow arrives to find the bench empty. Days pass, and Harold never shows up. Disturbed, the crow takes flight, scouring the village until it spots an old cottage where Harold lies ill. Though weak, the man still manages to stir. The crow lands beside his bed, then flies off to gather herbs from a nearby hedgerow. Harold slowly brews a tea from the offering and begins to mend.
Yet his health worsens again, and he soon lies on his deathbed. When his family finally arrives—sons who haven’t stepped foot in his home in years, their eyes fixed on the modest inheritance—they find Harold surrounded by shadows. In the commotion, the crow swoops down and strikes one of the sons. “Raise a raven and it will pluck out your eyes!” the man shouts, his voice raw with anger. Without hesitation, Harold rasps, “Sometimes a raven knows loyalty where men forget. Ravens watch the world; hearts don’t always follow.”
The cottage falls silent, the crow watching from the windowsill, unblinking.