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> They said she brought plagues with her eyes.
That her breath could rot fields.
That her blood had no color — only curses.
The hut stood at the edge of the village, where even the rats refused to nest. The roof sagged like an old man's back, the door leaned off its hinges, and the wind whispered secrets through the cracks. It was a house made of forgotten wood and remembered hate.
Inside, she stirred a pot with nothing in it but hot water.
The woman — no one used her name anymore — sat alone, her hands pale from the cold, her hair matted with dust. Her cloak was once blue, but now hung in rags like it had tried to escape her too.
Children were told stories of her.
Adults spit at her path.
And yet… she had never harmed a soul.
She washed the feet of the dying. She left food by the river where the beggars slept. She prayed every morning, even though the gods had long turned their backs on her.
Today, the sun never rose. The sky stayed a dull gray.
A knock.
She blinked, surprised. No one knocked. They threw stones, shouted, or tried to burn the hut — but never knocked.
She opened the door gently.
A child — no older than six — stood there, face bruised, lip trembling. Behind him, angry voices echoed from the village square.
"They said you'd eat me," the boy whispered.
She knelt slowly, eye to eye with him. "Are you afraid of me?"
He nodded. Then paused. Then shook his head.
She smiled. Not wide, not bright — but honest. "Come in. I don't eat children. I just boil water."
He stepped inside. She gave him the last of her bread. It was stale, hard as stone — but he smiled like it was gold.
From the doorframe, a shadow watched. A crow, blacker than night, stared at her with unnatural stillness.
That night, the woman dreamt of a cradle made of thorns…
And something inside it — breathing.