She saw him from her place in the trees, where she'd been watching the storm intently. Little by little the seasons strip layers from the earth. Scrubbed it bare, packed it clean to be made new again, before scorching it to start over. Little by little the world changed, shaped like clay by a relentless hand, and little by little she'd grown fascinated by the resulting deformations. Growth that began too late withering against the cold front. Trunks and branches alike twisted from changes in the wind. Weather was a powerful thing.
Like the earth, she had been stripped, as well. Weathered. Each limb elongated by time and twisted in the elements. She'd long forgotten what she'd been before this, exactly. Sometimes a flicker of memory came unbidden to her, brought on by a light, or boots in the snow, something familiar. Family.
He wasn't dressed right, or shaped right, or going the right way, but something in this man seemed safe, so she followed him. Not on the road, but in the branches. Movements masked by the sounds of the storm, curling a hand or a foot firmly around the next icy, wooden limb before letting go of the last.
Oh, he was going to the bat house. Why was he going to the bat house? Did he hope there would still be bats up in the roof beams? That the couple would still be watching television together or cozying up in their big, soft bed? If so, he was going to be disappointed. Strangers had come after the couple stopped answering the phone and taken the television. All of the good stuff. And she'd long since eaten the last of the bats. There was nothing at the bat house worth looking at.
Except... maybe he knew she'd been there. Maybe he was looking for her.
The thought spurred her own, and she changed course, hurrying ahead of the man, taking risks now with her swings from branch to branch. Letting herself become airborne. Caring not if she slipped. She wouldn't slip. Couldn't slip. He was coming for her. Coming to bring her home. But she had to be there to be found.
She scurried up and onto the low roof of the bat house like a demented spider, digging her nails through the ice for purchase. Had there been bats in the house still, they would have been startled by the click-click-click of her scuttling. But the house was quiet and she was able to slip down the chimney. Quick, quick, quickly letting herself slide down the rough brick; narrow form becoming darkened by soot, but able to navigate the tight space without getting damaged. The flue had been stuck open for ages. It was how she'd gotten in the first time, and all the others after.
The floors were already filthy, but she avoided them out of habit; picking her way up high to wedge herself in the angle between the wall and the ceiling. She slunk from the far side of the room to the entry way, cautiously dropping enough to perch atop the doorway as though it were a narrow branch. Silently, she reached down a long, twisted arm and extended thin, weathered fingers to twist the locks open. Then she withdrew back into a high corner to wait for him to come in, eager to be rescued.