It was dusk when I found the tavern — not a building so much as a ruin stitched back together with stubborn wood and moss. It leaned slightly, like even gravity had grown tired of holding it upright. But it had music.

  That’s what drew me.

  A voice — lilting, imperfect, and warm.

  Not the kind you’d find in royal halls, but the kind sung between friends who’d fought and laughed too much to care about pitch.

  I stood at the edge of the clearing, listening.

  And that’s when she appeared.

  Red hair braided back in defiance. A battered lute slung across her back like a second spine. Her boots were mismatched, one patched in three places. But her presence… it filled the air like spiced cider and mischief.

  She sang of crows and saints. Of wars ended by kisses and kitchens burned down by moonlight. Of owls who charged tavern tabs to forest spirits, and ghosts who demanded a tip for haunting on weekends.

  Then came the final verse:

  “And the crow said to the baker, ‘I knead your dough, I need your bread—’ But the baker replied, ‘Try rye-ing harder instead!’”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  It was so staggeringly awful, so gloriously stupid, I choked on a laugh I didn’t know I still had. A real, startled sound that scraped free from somewhere deep.

  She looked up, eyes sharp.

  Grinned.

  Bowed low.

  “Finally, someone with taste,” she said. “Or at least a good throat.”

  I hadn’t realized I was standing in the open now.

  “Do you always insult your audience?” I asked.

  “Only the interesting ones.”

  She walked up, stuck out a hand. “Helanin. Bard. Disaster. Wife to a woman who can lift a tree. You?”

  I hesitated. Then reached into my cloak and pulled a single black feather.

  “No name,” I said. “But you can call me a reminder.”

  She didn’t flinch. Just tilted her head.

  “Poetic. Brooding. I approve.”

  She winked. “You’ve got that ‘I commune with ghosts and reorganize graveyards in my spare time’ aesthetic.”

  We shared a drink. She played another song — one less clever, more quiet. I said nothing. But I listened.

  When I left that night, she handed me a folded piece of paper.

  A drawing. A crow perched on a windowsill beside a steaming mug.

  “I like painting what I want to see again,” she said.

  I didn’t answer.

  But I kept the drawing.

  Sometimes, memory is loud.

  Other times, it hums gently beneath the ribs — waiting.