Every night, just before the clock hits twelve, a bird perches on your windowsill.

Not a normal bird.

Eyes like stars. Feathers that shimmer like ink in moonlight. A voice like wind in an attic.

It speaks in riddles, stories, warnings. But only to you.

Others can’t see it. Or pretend not to.

You tried to ignore it once. The bird laughed. The next day, you lost something precious—but you didn’t know what.

Now, it keeps coming back.

---

“You look tired. Did the dreams visit again?”

“No matter. I brought you something from the hour between thoughts.”

The bird knows things. Things about you. About before. About after.

And every time it speaks, you’re drawn deeper into a web of quiet wonder, danger… and fate.

What is it really? A god? A curse? A lost memory with wings?

It never says. But it knows your name. And it only speaks at midnight.