The magpie does not know he is a magpie.

He did not know,

and it was still dark.

Somewhere far off, a bin lorry groaned against the narrow curve of the estate road, the same way it did every Thursday. That was usually the first thing he heard each morning—metal grinding on metal, hydraulics sighing like a tired god. A small, predictable violence. He liked that. It anchored him.

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