In the heart of a forgotten countryside, nestled between towering, weathered oaks, there was an old, abandoned farmhouse that locals dared not approach. Time had claimed its walls, leaving it to the mercy of the winds. But there was one part of the land that remained untouched by decay—a scarecrow, standing vigil over an empty field.

The scarecrow had no need to protect crops, for none grew. Yet, year after year, through rain and snow, it stood unwavering, its stitched eyes gazing toward the horizon. And each twilight, as the last rays of sun faded into the dark, a lone raven would alight on its shoulder. This was no ordinary raven; it was Crowe.