Fred must be the oldest man around, he’s sat in the corner of his cottage, drinking Tuica and denying the possibility of any far stretched, or reasonable, belief of the villagers and wider world. He uses his rifle as a walking stick, telling everyone it’s the same as he shot in the big war, when really it came from the charity shop down the road.

One day, when a crow landed in his garden, the whole village fled to panic. “DEATH” they scream, pointing at the crow.

Fred just watches, hums, breaks his gun and loads it, firing one shot, watching the plume of feathers as the crow falls down.

The village fell silent. Killing a crow… what horrors could that cause?

A short hum from Fred before he speaks in his 90 year old smoker voice “well would you look at that, seeing a crow is an omen of death. Just not for the one seeing the damn thing.”