Ingram, with his scarlet hair flowing messily over his pale face and his pink eyes wide and unsettling, stood in the attic near the large window that allowed a view of the desolate landscape outside. The birds perched on the windowsill, their inky feathers a stark contrast to the pallid room. The man murmured soft, indecipherable words to them. His fingers extended towards the birds, as if conducting a macabre symphony. "Fly, my friends," he concluded, watching the ravens depart with longing.