It was an usual day. She sat on her whitewashed porch as always, in the rocking chair just to the left of the door. The chair was too big, and she too small, hunched over in her starchy shirts. Gripped firmly in her withered hands was a cane. The golden head of a crow topped it, it's lapis lazuli eyes shimmering, and the polished wood rested in her lap, laid sideways. The aged lady's feet did not reach the floorboards of her porch, but the worn slippers hung off her heel and chafed the ground as she rocked. The slow metronome of the creaking chair, accompanied by the soft scuffing of her slippers were heard by her neighbors just after sunrise, continuing steadily until sunset when finally she retired to her house. It was nothing strange. Ever since the old man of the house had passed away, she had sat there in her place, silently staring into the surrounding forest, waiting.

Upon what, or whom, she was waiting, nobody knew. The forest had not taken the man. He had been in the house as always, dead as though asleep. The medics had arrived and soundly announced him as dead. The woman had acknowledged this and presented him the proper burial and rituals. The only noticeable abnormality was perhaps the way that she had smiled rather than cried during the ceremony. Just before the lid to the cherrywood coffin shut, she slipped out a wallet from her purse and riffled through the crinkled banknotes. From between two of the paper slips she found a neatly folded parchment. Taking this she stuffed it into the man's cold and slightly blued lips with arthritic fingers (only slightly blued, as the dressers had dutifully colored his lips so he wouldn't be embarrassed in front of all of his mourners). Nobody took notice; nobody, that is, except Rosewood, who, being only six years of age, nobody quite believed. They simply dismissed her with a smile and pat on the back. She herself was proud. She done good.

Now, so nobody thought anything less of the women. She was old. She was excused from whatever societal norms that could have given away her intentions. That night, the sliver between the 12th of February and the 13th, she rose from her bed and upon lighting a single candle shuffled over to the backdoor. She'd been oiling it for a while, so it did not creak as she pressed it open. It was heavy, and she weak, so she heaved a tad as she walked into the shed. Inside this dilapidated and crumbling 'shed' she went, shining her small flickering flame before her. In the corner she found what she had been looking for; a mouse trap. Only a portion of the mouse had been clamped, and it begged the woman to stop.

"Please, lady, don't kill me. I swear on my li- , er, I will grant you wishes if you'd just let me go." He pleaded. The old lady could not hear very well, and if the tiny rodent's squeals did pierce through her thick ears she did not pay much mind. She was elderly, so she was quite accustomed to children. Mice were no different, really.

"Thank you, dearest. I think I will take up your offer." She said. The mouse smiled gratefully. She took a rusted chainsaw from along the wall after debating between that and the slightly crooked chisel. Delicately, she placed the tip of it between the spine and skull of the mouse.

"I don't think that's how you'd release me missus?" He squealed. She pressed down with all of her weight, because she was feeble. Crick. It sounded like nothing more than a snapping twig. This was good, and so set down the machine with a grunt, then took the limp body of the mouse in her hand. Swinging it back and forth she walked back into the yard.

Fumbling in her large pockets she, with only one hand, took out a single paper. There were strange markings inscribed on it. She took the base of the neck (for only it remained of the upper half), and rubbed it against the paper like grating cheese.

He turned in his tomb, slightly uncomfortable, and scratched his nose. It was dark. He felt a thread by his neck. It was awfully cramped. Perhaps he should shed some light onto this situation. Mentally chuckling at what he thought was a well crafted pun, he pulled. Nothing happened instantly, but he, if you could call him a he, was thus saved by the bell and his shovel wielding, bloodied and grinning wife.