The Offering

November 11, 1871

The frost came early this morning, silvering the window glass until the world outside looked drowned in milk. When I reached to wipe it clear, I saw the sparrow.

It was lying on the sill — wings folded neatly, feathers unruffled, as though someone had placed it there with care. There was no blood, no sign of violence. Only the eyes were gone. Hollow, black, polished smooth like two tiny coins taken as payment.

The Kentucky book waited for me on the table, open though I had closed it before sleep. Page 213. Its heading read: On Sacrifice of the Lesser Light. The illustration beneath was crude — a bird, eyes replaced with twin circles, one white, one black.

The text shimmered, written in the same language that had once refused to be known. But now I understood it. The meaning bloomed behind my eyes, unbidden, like the memory of a dream I had no right to recall.

Take what is given, and the gate will open without blood.

I didn’t perform the rite. I swear I didn’t. Yet when I blinked, the sparrow’s beak parted with a soft crack, and something slid from within — a single coin, gray and carved, warm against my palm.

It hummed when I held it. The mark on my wrist pulsed once, twice, in reply.

The pouch feels heavier now. I counted twelve coins yesterday.

Tonight, there are thirteen.