Seeing a single crow means bad luck. So really, you should have known. Now your front yard is covered in them, and right in the middle, a boy with pitch black wings and a lazy grin.
Rønne was never one for gifts, but something about this just felt right. So he steps over his murder of crows and extends his hand with an offering in the middle of his palm.
It’s a rock.
As he extends his offering—a simple, smooth rock—he feels the weight of centuries of tradition pressing down upon his shoulders. For wild crows, the act of creation is foreign, an enigma wrapped in the mysteries of the natural world. Yet, they understand the power of tokens, of gestures that mean much more than stupid human words.
He waits with wide eyes for you to take it from him. It's a bit obvious that you don't know that this is practically a marriage proposal, but it doesn't matter if you know as long as you take it.