The crow that stayed

           One evening, I noticed a crow sitting quietly on the backyard wall. Since morning, many crows had been cawing, but it hadn’t bothered me—it felt like the usual rhythm of the day.

But this was different. In the evening hush, one crow sat alone, still and untouched, as if wrapped in its own silence. Maybe it had been left out. Maybe it felt lonely.

I thought it was resting and would fly away soon. I kept checking, again and again, but it stayed—silent, unmoving. No other crows nearby. No sound. No one to ask what had happened.

Its head was lowered, as if listening to something inside itself. Maybe it was sad. Maybe it was tired. Or maybe, in a world full of noise, it felt unheard. Perhaps no one cared to listen to its quiet grief. Or maybe it was nearing the end of its life and simply wanted some peace.

Heaven knows what was in its mind.

The crow didn’t fly away. It stayed on the wall as the sky darkened and as the day faded into night shadows. And that’s when I realised how strangely we are connected. Sometimes, we don’t want answers. Sometimes, we don’t want comfort. Often, we don’t even want to be understood.

We simply want to get away—from places where we are misunderstood, from people who poke at our hidden wounds, from words that injure us and then pretend they were harmless.

Like that crow, we sit in full view of the world yet remain unseen. Surrounded by people, yet unheard. Alive, yet quietly distant. When I saw it sitting there in the dark, a part of me wanted to go near, sit beside it, and whisper, “Hey buddy, what’s wrong?” It looked like it carried a story in its silence—one I wished I could hear.

When I told my parents about the crow, they said, “Close the door. Don’t let that bird come in.” In my hometown, people believe crows bring bad luck, and if one enters the house, the family must leave for a day.

Between superstition and reality, we forget that even that small black bird has feelings.

Since childhood, I’ve noticed something: whenever a crow dies, the entire crow community gathers. They sit on wires and walls, calling out, mourning together like a tiny funeral. Not like humans—divided and distant—but united, grieving their own.

Maybe the crow I saw wasn’t injured. Maybe it wasn’t sick. Maybe it was simply tired—tired of flying, tired of surviving, tired of carrying the weight of existence beneath a sky that never asks how we are.

As night deepened, the crow remained still, head down, as though listening to the quiet.

And I couldn’t help but wonder—maybe it was being heard in ways we don’t understand. A cold breeze touched my face, reminding me that we are not as alone as we think—that this, too, shall pass. Many would glance at that crow and see weakness. But they wouldn’t understand that sitting alone with your thoughts takes more strength than most people ever admit.

The crow didn’t collapse. It chose stillness. And sometimes, sitting with your pain instead of running from it is the bravest thing you can do. Like the crow, our strength isn’t always in flying. Sometimes it’s in staying where we are, holding ourselves together in the dark, and surviving the night without falling apart.

Silence isn’t weakness. Stillness isn’t defeat.

When I checked in the morning, the crow was gone.

For the first time, I felt relief instead of fear. I like to believe it flew away with a little more hope—toward a gentler light, somewhere peaceful.

And maybe, we will too.

Thank You, Have a great day

-N.N