Before the sun has fully risen over Elderby Green, the stillness is broken by the harsh cry of a crow. In an instant, the village seems to hold its breath.

At Mrs Fletcher’s funeral parlour, two grizzled undertakers drop their shovels, leaving a half-dug grave gaping in the damp earth.

Across the lane, Mr Cartwright sets aside the coffin he was polishing, his neat rows of varnished wood suddenly redundant.

Down at the surgery, Dr Siddall and Nurse Owen exchange grim looks as they button their coats, ready to receive the next casualty.

By the green, the fire brigade’s engine rumbles to life, its siren silent yet expectant—a mighty machine poised to answer a call that no one can predict.

Even the church bell seems suspended, its tongue stilled until the moment a body is laid to rest.

Word travels from door to door: a murder of crows hovers above the old willow at the field’s edge. Within minutes, the village chief is at the steps of the town hall, crumpling his prepared speech of solemn condolence.

In the churchyard, the vicar unlocks the storeroom and unfurls black banners, while volunteer’s tidy pews and set out tear-soaked handkerchiefs for those who will need them.

In every home, women stand at washhouses scrubbing and ironing their finest mourning clothes.

Children cling to their mothers’ skirts, wide-eyed, as if death’s shadow might reach through the windowpane at any moment.

Husbands clasp trembling wives; neighbours offer awkward embraces, the fear of an unknown victim knitting them together in reluctant solidarity.

All day, the crows’ wheel and croak overhead, as though marking time until another life is claimed.

And when at last the village falls silent once more, the people of Elderby Green carry their anxieties home, wondering who will be next—and whether the black-feathered watchers might one day alight upon their own rooftops.