The Raven, The Sparrow, and the Mango Tree

In the middle of a golden wheat field stood a lonely mango tree, its branches heavy with ripe fruit. Perched upon one branch was a glossy black raven, sharp-eyed and silent, watching everything that stirred below. Just beneath, fluttered a cheerful sparrow, her wings quick, her voice lively, chirping about how sweet the mangoes must taste.

A scarecrow stood a few meters away, arms stretched wide as if guarding both the tree and the harvest. But everyone in the village knew something strange—no matter how many times birds came close, the mangoes never seemed to vanish. It was as though the scarecrow itself watched over them, not just with stitched eyes, but with something… alive.

The raven leaned closer to the sparrow and whispered,
“Little one, you must be careful. The fruits here aren’t just for eating. The scarecrow keeps a secret, one that even I don’t dare uncover.”

The sparrow laughed lightly, brushing off his words.
“A scarecrow? It’s only straw and cloth. Look how still it stands! I’ll taste just one mango, and no one will ever know.”

The raven’s feathers bristled.
“You don’t understand. The last bird who tried… never returned.”

The sparrow hesitated, her wings slowing in the air as she hovered near the tempting fruit. The mango’s skin glowed in the sunlight, almost too perfect, as though waiting for her.

Behind them, the scarecrow’s stitched smile seemed to stretch wider.

The raven flapped his wings nervously, ready to shout, ready to fly—
But at that very moment, the sparrow darted forward toward the fruit.

And then—