Addison watches the crow chisel C-L-A-Y-T-O-N into the headstone with its 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 break 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 feathered friend.

Suddenly, the beak breaks off with a swift and crushing force. The crow’s face implodes in a crumble like a condemned skyscraper made of pottery. Pieces of it 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.