My master sends crows like me off to deliver messages. This has always been my job. I call. I speak my call. Yet across this gloomy city, no one listens. No matter my height in the sky, nor the branch that I sit on, these people move along without giving my call a second notice. I carry one message to deliver. Upon delivery, my mission is completed. Yet my message can only be understood by one person. The one individual of which it belongs to. Where could this person be? Are they hiding? Are they just shy? The message does seem pretty important. I mean, it is the final testament of a dead man. Therefore, my master wishes to give the message to his son, for it might add some closure to his fathers sudden passing.
I’ve searched and searched for this son, soaring from perch to perch. Eventually I found who I was looking for, though he seemed quite different from how I imagined. He was old, wrinkled, and had a large beard on his face. I noticed he was holding a bottle of whiskey, making me think that he was drunk with the regret of something. I knew that I found the son.
I called, giving him my Misunderstood Message, for only he did not perceive it as a simple crow call. He understood my message immediately. Yet his response was very unusual to me. Bursting into tears, he seemed both sad and crying tears of joy. I could not tell the difference. All I know about is his father’s message. “My son, you had every right to take my life. I was drunk, violent, and vile to you. You simply did what you could to defend you and your mother. I forgive you. Pop.”