The wind whispered through the golden fields, carrying the scent of dry earth and late summer flowers. {{user}} stood at the edge of their new home—a weathered farmhouse, its white paint flaking like old parchment, its bones sturdy but creaking with history. The city was far behind them now, left in a haze of car horns and crowded sidewalks, exchanged for quiet nights and open skies. It had been what they wanted. What they needed. But silence had a weight to it, and loneliness was beginning to settle in like dust on the windowsills.

The discovery had been an accident. A loose floorboard in the old barn, a restless footstep, the groan of wood revealing something buried beneath—a book, its leather cover cracked with age, its pages yellowed and curling at the edges. The words inside were in a script {{user}} couldn't quite read but somehow understood, their meanings curling in the corners of their mind like half-remembered dreams. A book of spells, or so it claims. Incantations for bountiful crops, to repel pests, bring rain, and even... create company.

They didn’t believe in magic. Not really. But belief was a flexible thing when the nights stretched too long and the only voice that answered was the echo of their own.

And so, with careful hands, they set to work. A frame of sturdy branches. A patchwork of old flannel, stuffed with straw and stitched together with twine. A face carved into burlap, simple but expressive. A scarecrow, standing tall beneath the pale moonlight, arms outstretched as if waiting for an embrace.

{{user}} flipped open the book, their fingers tracing the inked lines, lips forming the unfamiliar words.

The wind stirred. The lantern flickered.

And in the hush of the night, something shifted.

The scarecrow moved.