Mia had once been just a child—an ordinary child, like any other in the village. No one truly knew where she had come from, or who had left her behind. The first to find her was a washerwoman, weary from her day's work, who spotted the small bundle lying on the riverbank. The baby's cries were weak, yet insistent, carrying across the water like a fragile plea for life.
The washerwoman had taken the infant into her arms without hesitation, as though fate had placed her there for a reason. She and her husband had no children of their own, but when they carried Mia home that night, their house felt fuller, brighter, as if they had been waiting for her all along.
Life in their household was simple and meager. Poverty clung to them like a second skin, yet there was warmth in their little hut. The washerwoman would hum lullabies as she scrubbed clothes by the river, while her husband carved little wooden trinkets to amuse the child. They fed Mia from their own plates, clothed her in garments mended again and again, and laughed at her clumsy steps when she began to walk.
They were poor, yes—but with Mia, they were happy.
Everything was ordinary until that day. Mia was five years old, playing hide and seek with the other children at the edge of the village. The sun had begun its slow descent, bleeding gold and crimson across the sky, when she slipped quietly into the jungle. Her bare feet padded across roots and fallen leaves until she found the perfect hiding spot—behind a great tree whose trunk was wider than three men standing shoulder to shoulder.
She crouched there, pressing her small hands against the bark, her heart thumping with excitement as her friends' voices called out in the distance. One by one, they passed her by, unable to find her. Mia bit her lip to stifle a giggle, certain she had won this round.
But then, something shifted. The light dimmed around her, as though the shadows had thickened. She looked up, and there it was—an outline towering above her. A shadow, vast and faceless, its form rippling like smoke in the fading light.
Any other child might have screamed. But Mia did not. She tilted her head, her wide eyes curious, unafraid. The shadow bent closer, its presence heavy, and reached out a hand that seemed neither solid nor air. It brushed against her cheek with a strange gentleness. Mia, in her innocence, touched the hand back and smiled.
For a moment, it lingered—its faceless head inclining toward her, its hand caressing her cheek before moving to rest upon her head, as though in blessing. The strange warmth made her eyelids flutter, her body sway with the softness of it.
Then came the scream.
She turned sharply to see her playmates standing a few feet away, their faces twisted in terror. They shouted, voices breaking, and then bolted back toward the village without another glance.
By the time Mia looked back, the shadow was gone.
That night, her small body burned with fever. She tossed and turned on her straw mat, her skin slick with sweat, while her foster parents hovered at her side, bathing her forehead with wet cloths, whispering prayers through their worry.
But word travels swiftly in villages, faster than the river's current. By dawn, the tale had reached every ear—children babbling about a shadow that touched Mia, a darkness that marked her. And by noon, the whispers had reached the priestess and the elders, curling like smoke around their suspicions.
Although no one spoke openly, things began to change. The children who once played with Mia no longer came to her door. Their laughter carried through the village, but it never again reached her. When she tried to approach them, they turned away, whispering, scattering like frightened birds. She found herself alone for most of the day, sitting quietly by the river or in the shadows of her home, her small hands fiddling with pebbles while the others laughed without her.
Her mother, too, felt the weight of it. The women who once lingered by the riverbank to gossip and share stories now drifted away when she approached. Conversations fell silent, smiles turned stiff, and the warmth of companionship grew cold. One by one, even her closest companions avoided her.
Her father bore the hardest blow. Already poor, he soon lost the small job he had. With nothing steady to rely on, the burden of survival fell heavily on his wife. She washed clothes endlessly, her hands raw and blistered, while he sought whatever odd labor he could find. Together, they tried to keep the household standing, tried to shield Mia from the whispers, but it was never enough. And though they never blamed her, Mia's tender heart absorbed every cold glance, every silence, every unspoken accusation.
Then tragedy struck again.
It began with words—sharp, cruel words from the lips of a wealthy employer who had grown tired of the man's defiance.
"Your daughter is a freak," the man sneered, his laughter mocking. "She's close to the Charora. I'll say it again—what can you do about it?"
Her father's blood boiled. Rage spilled from him before caution could catch it.
"My daughter is innocent," he shot back. "Why don't you speak of your cheating wife instead? Everyone knows where she goes at night under the guise of prayer. Why don't you see for yourself who it is she worships?"
It was not a lie. Everyone in the village knew the truth, though they dared not voice it. But in this world, a poor man was not allowed to speak the truth about the powerful.
The rich man's face darkened with fury. His boot crashed into her father's ribs, dropping him to the ground. Then his men descended, striking with fists and boots until blood stained the earth.
That day, Mia and her mother clung to each other, their cries breaking the air as they knelt beside the broken body of their father and husband. The man who had defended his daughter's innocence lay beaten and battered, paying the price of truth with his flesh.