She didn't sleep that night.
Every time her eyes closed, she heard breathing — not her own.
A slow, heavy inhale… exhale… from somewhere inside her.
By morning, her belly felt warm. Too warm.
She unwrapped her robe and looked down.
No bruising. No sickness. No wound.
But the skin beneath her navel pulsed… just once. Like a heartbeat — but not hers.
> "No," she whispered. "This isn't real."
She splashed cold water over herself. It didn't help. The warmth inside only grew.
---
Outside, the village was waking — and not in the usual way.
The cattle refused to move. Chickens had stopped laying eggs.
Trees near her hut had begun to wilt, their bark turning black, their leaves curling.
And down in the temple courtyard, the priests whispered.
> "She walks cursed."
"The gods will not speak to us while she breathes."
"There must be blood."
The High Priest, a tall man with gold rings in his beard and a voice like firewood snapping, said nothing for now.
But his eyes followed her hut.
And the crow was still watching.
---
Inside, she prepared broth. What little she had — crushed roots and salted bone. Her hands shook, spilling more than she saved.
She sat. Then stood. Then sat again. Her body didn't feel like hers.
The warmth grew.
And then— a kick.
She froze.
Her breath caught in her throat.
The movement was small… soft… but unmistakable.
Her fingers rested on her belly. She looked down, horrified. Confused.
> "No," she said again. "No, no, no…"
She stood and stumbled toward the stream. Maybe cold water. Maybe prayer. Maybe anything.
But the water was gone.
The streambed had dried overnight. Where it once flowed, there was only cracked mud and dead fish.
And someone had written in the earth — letters carved with a knife:
> "The child is watching."
---
She turned back toward the village, her eyes wild.
A dozen eyes watched her. No one helped. No one came near.
The world had already decided.
> She was cursed.
The child was unnatural.
And the gods were silent.
But inside her, the child grew still — as if it, too, was listening.