Visage dark as night, fingernails, talons any eagle would envy, her eyes shone with a preternatural intensity. A discoloured robe hung from square shoulders and swept the ground while responding to every change in wind direction. It enhanced the impression of a waif. No limbs visible, she seemed to glide rather than walk.
Ramrod sraight, she appeared taller than five-foot-eight. The furrows that lined her face told tales of age and something difficult to place.
She cut the picture of a hag.
Until she smiled.
Then the sun came out. The wrinkles disappeared, her eyes sparkled and crow's feet adorned their corners. Perfect dentition gleamed white in contrast to her skin.
The little boy, visiting his hometown for the first time, realized something; she was the victim of misunderstanding and labelling.
The old woman lived alone. Her house, the last in the village. She had no children---had never had any---the basis of her being termed a witch. Most would not lift a finger to help her even when she asked. He decided he would not treat her like them.
The next day, he went to check on her.
His scream brought the occupants of the nearest house at a run.
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