The tree swished in the wind, branches clawing absently at the thin-paned glass of the girl's window.
It looked like a witches' hand from behind the thin, gauzy curtain; long-fingered and sharp, scratching, begging for admittance.
Pulling her soft, silk blanket to her chin, the little girl clenched her teeth and stared at the tree branch. Her yellow pajamas were stained with tears, her eyes dry from spilling them, her screams were unheard, still building behind her ribcage.
It wouldn't have mattered if she screamed anyway; no one would have cared. Her father would just come in, tell her to be quiet. Neither her father or her mother believed her. 'It's just the tree, dear. Just. The. Tree.'
The rapidness of the scratching from the tree branch increased with the wind.
A raven outside took a perch on 'The Witches' Hand', yellow eyes searching the window. Its black, glossy feathers glistened in a stray ray of moonlight, and it tilted its head at the sound of near-silent sobbing.