Every harvest, the scarecrow in the high field turns on its pole. It points one straw arm at a house, and before the snow that family packs up and leaves. They never write back. This year Wren counted the empty homes: eleven gone. Last week the scarecrow turned. Its arm now points straight at Wren's own front door. That makes them the twelfth. This morning the crows stopped singing all at once, and the field went dead quiet. Wren stands at the fence, heart pounding, and decides not to wait for the snow.

Wren climbs the fence and walks straight up the hill toward the scarecrow. Up close it is taller than it looked. Burlap face, stitched smile, button eyes that seem to follow. Wren stops one step away and says out loud, "Why us? Why our house?" The straw arm twitches, then slowly bends, like it is about to point somewhere new.

Wren panics and shoves the scarecrow hard. It tips off its pole and crumples in the dirt, just straw and old cloth. For a second Wren feels brave. Then every crow in the county lifts off the trees at once and turns to face the hill, hundreds of black eyes locking onto Wren.

Wren grabs the crumpled scarecrow and hugs it tight, the way you'd hold a scared kid. "It's okay," Wren says. "You don't have to point anymore." The straw goes soft in their arms. The crows settle back into the trees and start singing. By the time Wren walks home, smoke is rising from all eleven empty houses. Everyone is back.