The witch gave me a twig.
That's how it started.
I'd been watching her plant something in the garden, I think it might have been lavender, and when she looked up, she simply smiled and held out a stick. Long, thin, slightly curved. A good twig, I assumed. The kind birds probably fought over in the wild.
I took it. Out of politeness, mostly.
Then she winked and said, "Go make a home, featherhead."
Turns out, building a nest is harder than it looks.
Step one: find more twigs. Easy? No. Not unless you're a bird with a PhD in forest architecture. Most of the sticks I picked up were too thick, too bendy, or broke in half the moment I tried to carry them.
Step two: pick a location. Somewhere high enough to avoid predators, close enough to food, sheltered from rain, soft enough to sleep in, angled for airflow, shaded for heat management, and not already home to a spider the size of a fist.
Step three: realize you are not actually good at any of this.
By midday, I had a pile of snapped sticks on a branch that sagged every time I landed on it. I tried weaving them. Tucking them in place. I even attempted a "nest spiral" like I'd seen in documentaries.
It fell apart.
Twice.
The third time, it collapsed mid-construction and landed directly on the witch's cat, who hissed at me like I'd insulted his bloodline and went over and knocked over a flower pot in protest.
I flew away. Very fast.
By the time the sun dipped low, I was exhausted, dusty, and covered in feather-frizz. My "nest" looked more like a bad art project made by a drunk squirrel. I flopped onto it anyway.
It poked me in four places.
I sighed.
This wasn't like solving problems in my old life. There were no emails to send. This wasn't something that had a quick fix. Just me, the forest, and a bunch of sticks that refused to cooperate.
But… no one was yelling at least.
I wasn't really being judged. In corporate life, it's honestly hard for even me not to judge another person for either not doing something correctly, or fast enough. It was part of the culture that was built.
The failure was mine, but it was also okay.
And somehow, even the mess felt kind of mine.
A soft rustle below broke the silence.
The witch was in her garden again, this time lighting a lantern shaped like a star. She glanced up, saw me tangled in my disaster-nest, and smiled.
"First one always looks like that," she said, lifting a small tin to her lips and sipping. "The second one, too. And the third if you're stubborn."
I chirped weakly.
She chuckled and pointed to a tree nearby. "You see that one? Hollow spot just above the fork? It might be easier to build in. Natural support. Good insulation. Less wind."
I followed her gaze. The spot looked… perfect. It looked big enough for me to be able to get inside without hitting anything, deep enough that I wouldn't stick out, and best of all is that the entrance was pointing straight to the fairy tale cabin with the gentle witch.
I chirped again, this time with a little more energy. She gave me a nod and went back inside, trailing the scent of mint tea and pine smoke.
I relocated the next morning.
And while my second nest was only slightly better than the first, it held together.
It was lumpy. Uneven. Still pokey in places. But when I curled up in it, wings tucked in and beak resting against my chest, I felt very accomplished.
I was feeling a bit warm, not a normal temperature feeling, but Warm like I was getting a bit closer to belonging.
The branch swayed gently beneath me. The forest whispered with distant birdsong and rustling leaves. And from somewhere below, I caught the scent of baking bread.
Maybe this world didn't need me to be useful.
Maybe I didn't need to be anything at all.
The festering idea of just being here doing nothing felt... Honestly, like it was enough.