"Sarah, go change your sweater! Are you trying to bring crows into our lives?" my grandmother said every morning when I came downstairs wearing anything black, whether it was a striped T-shirt or a bow in my hair.

As I walk the streets, grey skies above us, statues, emblems, paintings and fountains all adorned with crows, I try to imagine a world where this one small black bird didn’t carry the weight it does.

I wonder, curiously, if there is a universe, perhaps some alternative reality, where the number one fear would be car accidents or a misstep going down the stairs. But in the universe I, we, live in, these peculiar birds carry the coldest of chills down our spines.

We walk with our necks slightly tilted up, always unconsciously searching for safety in their absence. A black shadow on a wall makes us shut our eyes tight or feel our hearts quicken before our heads turn, fast and instinctive.

I’ve heard stories, from children in the park to families dining at the restaurant where I work. Stories that always start with “someone told me” or “I heard,” and always end in tragedy. The pattern is always the same: someone sees a crow, and hours later, death follows. Those who have time before tragedy strikes often run through a checklist. Call their parents. Tell their lawyer to get the will ready. Inform their boss they won’t be in tomorrow or ever again, and thank them for everything.

"Sarah, come help me with the bags!" my grandmother’s raspy voice snaps me out of the daily existential spiral I can’t seem to quit. We call them “death bags” in our community, bags every family keeps just in case a crow appears. They usually hold love letters, favourite things like journals, sweaters, plush toys, and a small survival kit for those who want to spend their last hours outside, chasing freedom before peace comes. They don’t carry much. In the end, you only take your soul with you.

"Coming!" I shout and jump from my swivel chair, heading for the door. But first, I reach to close my window, not wanting bugs to crawl in from the summer heat.

That’s when I yelp.

My eyes meet another pair, black, sharp, unblinking. A beak. Feathers. A rapid twitch of the head. I freeze. What am I supposed to do? Did I think about it so much I somehow manifested it? I look around. The streets are empty, the house quiet. Am I imagining it? Its head keeps bobbing and turning in quick, jerky movements. My hands tremble. My knees lock. Is this it? If it had come just a second later, maybe I could’ve prepared a fresh death bag. How will I even tell my grandmother? She’ll be left alone. No one left.

"Sarah!" My bedroom door slams open. "I’ve been calling for twenty minutes, miss! What are you doing?"

I look at her, eyes wet, my bottom lip shaking. "Nonna..."

I turn to point at the window, but the crow is gone. Maybe it flew off when she burst in. But I saw it. It saw me. Is this it? Could it have been a trick of the mind? A mirage?

"Qué pasa, mija?" She steps closer. I take a step back. My skin feels toxic, like just being near her is spreading death.

Oh, how I wish crows were just innocent birds.