Addison watches the crow chisel C-L-A-Y-T-O-N into the headstone with it’s beak and he marvels at the small bird’s resilient power. Worry creeps in as the bird bashes away at the rock. Each hard impact loosens the beak and chips it, nicking the edges.

Fragments form into larger pieces, falling off, but the crow remains steadfast—smashing the stone at an unrelenting pace.

“Stop.” Addison moves toward the crow. “You’re hurting yourself.” He says as he reaches to restrain his sleekly feathered friend.

The beak breaks off with a swift and crushful force. It’s whole face implodes in a crumble like a condemned skyscraper made of pottery. Pieces of the crow unexpectedly liquify and evaporate in a quick sizzle—a wavy mirage of heat rises, capturing Addison’s eyes, and dissipates to reveal his own hands holding the chisel and hammer where the crow had once been. It’s he who has been chiseling all along.

The crow is merging with me, Addison realizes in a pause.