I walk through the doors of the Scythe shopping center. The smell of leather, pastries, and perfume samples, waved in through the revolving doors. Layla links her arm through mine as we go up the escalator to the main floor of the shopping center.

I stare at the mural on the marble floor, of an elegant scythe, shopping bags looped over the handle. A monument to both death, and capitalist consumerism. Nice. The ceiling of the center is domed glass, letting the faint grey sunlight stream through, interrupted by the shadows of pigeons as they fly across.

I notice Layla has curled her hair today, and she's put on really pale lilac lip-gloss, that makes me smile, knowing the joy there would have been on her face as she put it on. I remember whenever I go over to her house, she would make up my face and turn me into a different person when I looked in the mirror again. But the thing that really made me smile, was the look of concentration, and joy as she did it.

That's why I like shopping with her, or studying with her, because of her look of concentration, her narrowed eyes as she checks everything, the flicker of her smile as she's trying not to laugh at a face I made, or a joke I told, and half-annoyed I made her almost mess up a stroke. Then her shiny eyes as she gets the mirror, and then her laughing at the fact I'm so excited.

That smile is another reason I'm doubting if I'm bisexual or not.

The first shop we go to is some trendy place that opened recently. A clothing place that seems weirdly 'preppy' for Layla's tastes. It's stuff I'd wear actually, and I shoot her a glance, wondering if she planned this or something.

I check the clothing label on a blue pleated skirt that looks like some part of a school uniform, and it's surprisingly reasonable for the neat interior. Layla stands next to me, examining a shorter, slimmer version in a pretty lilac, comparing it to a cherry-blossom pink one.

"Which one?" She asks me. I frown, debating how to tell her she looks good in both, without letting her pay for both.

"The blue one?" I say, pointing to one behind her, throwing in a wildcard.

"You're right." She says, after some deliberation, draping the power-blue skirt over her arm. "Here, we can coulor match." She hands me a dark blue one, this one has a waistband of ribbon-like material, that catches the light.

"Oh." I say, not quite sure how to react, as Layla reveals she picked out a whole outfit. A shirt that is pleated at the waist. It will hide my stomach when it's relaxed. I light up partly, trying not to feel terrible that that was my first thought. I agree to wear it, along with a navy bow that I cringe away from in my mind.

"You don't have to like it." Layla says shyly. That makes me jolt to attention.

"No, I love it, but you have to not laugh when I try it on!" I mumble, embarrassed.

"I won't. I'll do the ribbon for you, yeah?" I smile, and run off to get changed.

When I emerge, Layla ties the ribbon in my hair, and look in the mirror. I'm transfixed. I look different. Lighter, effortless, graceful. The skirt stops just below my knees, long enough to make me feel comfortable, and the material swishes like grass in the wind, silent, but beautiful, it makes me look tall in a pretty way, not a giraffe-rake way. If it weren't for my hair and acne, I'd look like a waving piece of grain, in a cute, dancing in a sunny field way.

Layla parts the hair from my face. I'm smiling. I look at her through the mirror. I don't want to admit it, but she's done it again. She's made me feel pretty, but not self-conscious. I hug her tightly.

Five minues later, after Layla has tried hers on, we pay, and I successfully buy her the other two skirts for her birthday in a few weeks without her knowing, and I succeeded at clothes shopping, so an amazing day. And now, I tell her what happened as we walk across the ground floor aimlessly.

"So, something weird happened on Friday night." I start.

"What?" Layla looks at me, her eyes concerned.

"Someone left a note on my window. Well, in it, actually." I continue.

"No! What did it say?" Layla gasps.

"Dear Daughter of Death, we need your help, something." I say, a little more dramatically than I need to.

"How dare they! Do you even know who it was?" She asks me, absolutely outraged.

"No, I mean, well, no, but... Sort of?" I say. "There was a person by the bus stop, just down the street from my house. All I could see was they were wearing a cap. They were just staring into my window." I shudder, and it isn't entirely fabricated.

"Have you reported this? Told anyone?" Layla fusses.

"No, I'm pretty sure it's someone from school playing a joke. And I've told you." I grumble, just thinking about it. Layla unlinks her arm with mine.

"Hana, no! Someone put that there, you need to check if your parents did it, or if anyone else has been in your house recently. If not, then best case, something blew onto your window sill, worst case, someone climbed onto your windowsill and put it there." Layla tells me, squeezing my hand.

"I was by the window the whole time. It just appeared. Whoever did it would have to be really small for me not to notice someone putting something on the other side of the window." I feel so stupid now.

"Well, they are are a small person if they did it intentionally. You know what school keeps saying 'be the bigger person'. But now you've said it, i got all worked up for nothing. You know, there was a storm last night, it probably blew there. You didn't reply did you?" Layla asks, smoothing out her face so it doesn't feel like she's telling me off.

"Yeah. There was another one. This one appeared overnight." I say sheepishly.

"Well, again, there was a storm last night, so it could have blown there if someone's bins got knocked over, and they were doing some horror thing. Or someone was hanging around for your mum. Or you have a fan-club, or one thousand other possibilities. What matters is you're not hurt, and you double check your dad put those security cameras up." She smiles at me.

"Okay, that's made me feel better." I smile at Layla, and take her arm again. "I did actually set up a camera to see how it happened, if it blew down or something, because I tied it into the apricot tree this time."

"Clever girl, but make sure you know how to get it down." Layla says. "Don't hurt yourself, I'll steady the stepladder if you need to."

"I'll be fine, I'll just grab it from the window."

"Don't you dare fall!" Layla laughs, and I remember every time she's made a joke like that, funny or not, just to cheer me up, her concern even peeking through her humour.

"I won't, I promise." I lead her to another shop, my sweet tooth giving me away, because it's a bakery, half to look at the techniqe, and half to feel the thrill of a good baked good. I smile guiltily as Layla shakes her head.

"I think they have new cherry-blossom stuff in." Layla teases me.

"Yeah, I hope so." I'm imagining mochi and little cakes and sugared almonds now, all a pleasant pink coulor.

One of the advatages of living in Green Hills is the amazing arra of cherry-blossom products. Some of the stuff is made in Japan, others here, and I've eaten so many things, I'm starting to be able to tell the difference between the two. What can I say, I'm an addict.

As we're walking to the door, a shadow flits over my face. Layla's saying something at my side, but I'm squinting into the pale, cloudy sky. I'm about to reply when a shadow sweeps over the roof. Black wings, an elegant beak, and eyes full of otherworldly intelligence that scares me. A raven. Clutched in it's claws is a letter, and as it flies overhead, some people pay attention, and others don't. I watch, a strange sense of foreboding building in my gut, tingling into my fingertips.

Another one joins it, and it isn't uncommon to see pairs of postal ravens skimming through the skies. An inspiring sight to be sure, but it gets stranger when they are jointed by other pairs, all carrying letters.

Then more, and more, and the unified snapping of wings against the air, the rush of the sky swirling in through the revolving doors, like a terrible marching beat.

Fear fills me. Although the ravens are really, really creepy, they are part of.. well, everything, postal services, tourism, our high-quality bird food industry. Green Hills would collapse without them.

They fly in a swirling pattern of wings and bodies, building height, in a mass of feathers. There must be hundreds now, and more are coming. The sun filters through in an ever-changing mirage, as the ravens gather closer, and more and more arrive. They never gather like this, only on stormy nights, by the post office, but this is wrong.

Slowly, the light begins to fade, until only the first raven is visible, silhouetted against the sun, all the others flying around the dome in a mass of birds, like a shackle around the sun, glaring down at us with glinting eyes, all carrying letters. The first raven slowly unhooks his feet, and then the light is gone, as the ravens huddle closer, like a blanket of darkness, or a pool of ink expanding, and only the artificial lights illuminate our blinking faces.

And then there's a thud. A letter dropped on the domed roof. The ravens stay still in the air, wings beating shallowly, slowly, careful calculations. They are watching. Everyone inside watches as it slides slowly down the glass roof, it's black paper and cherry blossom seal recognizable even from the ground.

There's one moment, one heart-stopping, breath-holding, raw moment. Where everyone thinks it was a mistake, a joke perhaps, a misdirection or a show, where nothing has gone wrong, one moment of total silence, on a knife's edge as we watch that letter like our lives depend on it. The ravens watch too, transfixed, and for one wing-beat, the world is still and silent.

And then the second drops. And the sky is filled with twirling pages of falling paper, thicker than rain, covering up the glass dome completely, like an eclipse.