Elin often stood in front of the old mirror in her room, staring at her own reflection longer than she should have.
She was thin—too thin, people said. Her arms looked fragile, her shoulders narrow, and her face pale. She would turn her head slightly, hoping to see even a little resemblance to her mother.
But it never came.
Her mother was beautiful—everyone said that. Fair skin, gentle eyes, and a soft smile that people admired openly. Whenever Elin went anywhere with her, the same question followed like a shadow.
"Is she really your daughter?"
"She doesn't look like you at all."
"Poor thing, she didn't get her mother's beauty."
They laughed. Sometimes they whispered. Sometimes they didn't even bother to lower their voices.
Elin smiled politely, because that was what she had learnt to do. But inside, something cracked every time.
At school, it was no different.
Her classmates noticed everything—how thin she was, how quiet she remained, and how she avoided attention. Some girls joked about her looks; others compared her to prettier classmates. Boys ignored her completely, as if she were invisible.
"Why are you so skinny?"
"Don't you eat at home?"
"You should be more like your mother."
Every word stayed with her. Every sentence settled deep inside her chest.
Elin was now a teenager, standing at the fragile edge of adolescence. A time when emotions felt heavier than the body could carry. A time when every word hurt more, every rejection cut deeper, and every silence felt louder.
She didn't understand herself anymore.
Sometimes she felt angry without reason. Sometimes she cried at night without knowing why. Other times, she felt completely empty—like she didn't belong anywhere. This phase was hard for everyone, but for Elin, it was cruel.
Because she was alone.
She couldn't talk to her family. She couldn't share her pain with relatives. Even among friends, she felt like an outsider. The world around her seemed cold, unkind, and impatient.
Things became worse after her younger brother was born.
The house changed overnight.
Her mother, once gentle and attentive, now spent most of her time with the baby. Every cry of her brother brought instant care. Every small movement received attention and concern.
Elin watched quietly from a distance.
Relatives who once criticised her now praised the baby endlessly.
"What a healthy boy!"
"He looks just like his father."
"A son is a blessing."
No one asked how Elin was doing. No one noticed when she stayed silent during family gatherings. No one realised when she stopped sharing her thoughts completely.
She felt replaced.
Not intentionally—perhaps—but deeply.
Sometimes, while sitting alone in her room, Elin wondered if her existence even mattered. She questioned whether being born was a mistake. She questioned whether beauty decided love and whether she had failed before she even began.
At night, she often lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The room felt heavy, as if the air itself pressed against her chest. She felt watched sometimes—not in a frightening way, but in a strange, unexplainable manner.
As if someone unseen knew her pain.
She would brush the thought away, blaming her tired mind.
Yet, on certain nights, when the house was silent and everyone asleep, Elin felt an odd sense of comfort—like a presence standing guard over her loneliness. She didn't know why, but during those moments, her heart felt slightly lighter.
She never spoke of it.
She learnt early that silence was safer than expression.
The wounds she carried were invisible, but they shaped her deeply. Every neglect, every careless word, and every comparison carved her into someone quiet, sensitive, and emotionally guarded.
Elin didn't know it yet—but these silent wounds would one day connect her to a mystery far beyond human understanding.
And the unseen presence that once watched over her pain…
had not forgotten her.
Elin grew up believing that something about her was wrong—though no one ever said it directly. It was hidden in laughter, wrapped in careless words, and buried inside comparisons that followed her everywhere. She was thin, unusually thin, and her relatives never let her forget it. Whenever family gatherings happened, someone would inevitably say, "She doesn't look like her mother at all." And then came the sighs, the pitying looks, and the unspoken disappointment.
Her mother was beautiful—graceful eyes, soft features, a presence that filled any room. Elin stood beside her like a shadow that did not belong. People would stare, then ask awkwardly, "Is she really your daughter?" Every time that question was asked, Elin felt as if a small part of her broke silently.
At school, it was no different. Teenage years were already confusing and fragile, but for Elin, they were unbearably cruel. Her body was changing, her emotions were uncontrollable, and yet there was no one she could talk to. Her classmates mocked her thin arms, her quiet nature, and her lack of confidence. Even teachers often overlooked her—calling on louder students, praising brighter faces.
One afternoon, the class teacher announced a small presentation. Elin had prepared carefully, spending nights rehearsing in front of the mirror. But when she stood up, holding her paper with trembling hands, someone whispered loudly from the back, "Why is she even trying?" Laughter followed. The teacher said nothing. That silence hurt more than the mockery.
Elin couldn't finish reading. Her vision blurred, her ears rang, and she rushed out of the classroom. She locked herself inside the washroom and slid down against the wall. Tears flowed freely—silent, heavy, endless. She covered her mouth, afraid someone might hear her cry. In that small, cold space, she felt completely invisible.
That evening, she stood in front of the mirror at home. The reflection stared back at her—a girl who did not recognise herself. "Why am I like this?" she whispered. "Why couldn't I be beautiful like her?" She pulled at her sleeves, hiding her thin wrists, wishing she could disappear into the glass.
Everything changed further when her younger brother was born.
From that day on, Elin felt as if she no longer belonged in her own home. Her mother's attention shifted completely. Every cry of the baby brought immediate care; every smile received praise. Elin watched from a distance as relatives showered the newborn with love. They brought gifts, blessings, affection—things Elin had slowly stopped expecting.
No one asked how she was doing. No one noticed when she stayed silent during meals or locked herself in her room for hours. She learnt to swallow her pain and smile when required. But pain does not disappear when ignored—it grows quietly.
Late at night, Elin began writing in a small diary she kept hidden under her mattress. She wrote things she could never say aloud.
"I think something is wrong with me. I feel unwanted. If I disappear, will anyone notice? I don't hate my brother, but I feel like I was replaced."
The words stained the pages like silent screams.
One night, after crying herself to sleep, Elin felt something strange. The room grew unusually quiet. The ticking clock seemed distant, the air cooler than usual. She turned in her bed, half-asleep, half-awake.
Then she saw him.
A figure stood near the window, dressed in white. He did not move, yet his presence filled the room. Elin's heart raced, but she was not afraid. There was something calm about him—something familiar. His face remained unclear, hidden in shadows, just like in her mother's dreams years ago.
A soft voice reached her ears, gentle and steady.
"You are not alone."
Elin wanted to speak, to ask who he was, but her voice wouldn't come out. The figure stepped back, fading slowly into the darkness. The room returned to normal—the clock ticking, the night sounds creeping back in.
She woke up suddenly, her heart pounding. It felt like a dream, yet too real to ignore. For the first time in her life, Elin felt something unusual—comfort.
Days passed, but that feeling remained. Sometimes, while walking alone, she felt as if someone was watching over her—not in a threatening way, but protectively. When loneliness became unbearable, the air around her seemed warmer, calmer.
She did not know it yet.
She did not know that her pain had been witnessed long before she was born.
She did not know that someone from another realm had silently chosen her.
And she did not know that the scars she carried would soon awaken a truth far greater than her suffering.
For now, Elin was just a teenage girl—quiet, broken, and misunderstood.
But the unseen eyes never left her.
One day, a strange thing happened. After finishing class, she came home and heard a strange story from their maid. While Elaine was at school, Elaine's house was playing with the maid and her younger brother. Someone said from the window of the house,
"Are you Elaine's younger brother?"
Her brother's name was Jack; he was a little older, and he could talk. Jack then said, "Yes, but who are you? And you can't be seen!"
He and the maid were whispering. From there, she said in a very affectionate voice,
"Where is your sister? When will she come? Give this to your sister."
There was a small wrapped pot; there was something in it. But Jack and the maid did not take it. They left without finding the person with that voice. They thought that maybe someone was talking from upstairs and wanted to give something. They forgot about it and started playing again in another place. But they did not know – it was impossible for an ordinary person to know what was happening in Elaine's house from the other side of that window! After Elin came home and heard this, she was a little curious. Behind the curiosity, a cold fear of the unknown was slowly entering her heart. Who could it be? Who wanted to give her what? And how did that existence know who was in her room? It's not possible for an ordinary person's voice to come from her room above the window!
"Elin did not know then—her pain was being witnessed by someone who was not human."