A gust tumbles her off course. She thumps onto a bare branch, far from anywhere she knows. The red roof is gone.
Endless gray-green fields stretch below. She looks down and thinks, "Oh no." The wind howls where the roof should be.
Left, just hedges. Right, more hedges. Up, only wind—she paws at the air and calls out for Mama, for home.
The only answer is a dead branch snapping far below. She hangs her head, feathers ruffled, and circles slower.
A crumpled square of paper flutters on a rusty fence post. She swoops down, lands, and unfolds it with her beak.
A wobbly crayon map: a red house, a blue wavy river, a big yellow arrow pointing south. "Huh," she thinks, and tucks it under her wing.
She grips the crumpled paper and flies, wind shoving hard from the side. The gray fields crack open into bright green, and the red roof blazes in the low sun. One loud CHIRP—then she dives.
She lands softly on the open windowsill, map still under her wing, and sets it on the shelf next to a chipped blue mug. Three slow, soft coos. Home.