[ WP ] Strange footprints in the snow lead into a dark shed ... and you decide to follow them in .

Mama always liked to tell me fantastical tales of people who weren ’ t like us. People who were part beast, who had magical powers, who could change the way people saw the world with a stroke of their mystical brush. And she always made sure that I knew they were just that: fantastical tales. “ It isn ’ t good for a girl ’ s imagination to run too wild ” she always said to me. But now, I find myself in one of the beginnings of those tales, looking down at tracks that shouldn ’ t be there, blood that doesn ’ t belong. 
 
 The metal handles from the buckets of chicken feed dig into my hands painfully. I can already here the chickens in their pen beyond the shed, shrieking to let me know that I ’ m late. Their screams carry easily through the cold air, no biting wind or heavy snow to stop them unlike last night. And yet, I can ’ t help but ignore every sense but my sight, taking in the perfectly shaped boot tracks spotted by blood that lead into the tool shed. Too small to be Papa ’ s; too big to be Finn ’ s. 
 
 I drop the buckets of chicken feed into the snow. Some of it spills over onto the ground, disappearing in deep shadows of white. The snow crunches softly underneath my boots as I make my way to the door. I ’ m careful to avoid the other tracks; careful to avoid the blood. 
 
 Where the door meets the frame is splintered and cracked, the lock and chain torn off with brute force. Blood stains the surrounding wood a dark burgundy and amplifies all of the crevices and grains. I run my thumb over it. Still wet. 
 
 It ’ s still too dark outside for the shed to be anything but. I ’ ve only been in here during the day when light pours in through the windows, lighting up the dust and dirt that covers every shovel and hoe and pitchfork. During the winter when all the spiders come inside in search of warmth, their webs on the garden tools are a grim reminder that we lost our best gardener and storyteller years ago. 
 
 I keep the door propped open with my foot and grab one of the crates to put in the door. Faint light from the horizon allows me to follow the half-melted snow and blood drops right to the edge of the shadows. Hesitantly, I reach down and dip my fingers into the trail, following it blindly through touch. The wood is soft underneath the trail, and my fingers easily press into it. Then I touch something surprisingly warm. 
 
 Brushing my fingertips against it, I find myself caressing silky, damp feathers. Unmistakably a bird. I touch it again, more roughly this time and it cries out. Injured. Painful. Cold. 
 
 I gather the small creature gently into the palms of my hand and carry it into the lit part of the shed. The light sparkles against its magnificent feathers of greens and blue and purples, moving almost in waves across the bird ’ s body like the sunrise over a turbulent ocean. Its feet and beak are black as night and its eyes are filled with intelligence. They look at me, full of pain. One of its wings bends out awkwardly from its body, blood soaking through the feathers and onto my skin. The strangest part about the injury is that the bones break inward, like something pierced or stabbed it. 
 
 The small bird is in bad shape. I can see it in his dull eyes and hear it in his shallow breathing. I know what Papa would do if it were any other animal. Put it out of its misery, it doesn ’ t need to hurt any longer. But this isn ’ t any other animal or beast or creature. I had heard this story and others like it a thousand times from Mama. 
 
 And I already knew my role in it. 

