By the time Alain learned to tie the strings of his shoes, he had already learned something far more important.
Misfortune noticed him.
It followed quietly, like a shadow that did not belong to the sun. Small things, at first—always small enough to be dismissed. A cup slipping from his hands. A chair leg snapping beneath him. A roof tile loosening the moment he passed under it.
Never enough to kill.
Always enough to warn.
Alain learned to walk carefully. To sit away from shelves. To avoid crowds. To watch the world before stepping into it, as if the ground itself might betray him.
He did not know the word curse yet.
But he understood fear.
At night, he lay awake listening to the rhythm of his parents' breathing from the other room. His mother's soft exhales. His father's steady presence, like an anchor in the dark.
What if something happens to them?
The thought gnawed at him more painfully than hunger or scraped knees.
Once, during dinner, his father's plate slipped from the table and shattered at his feet. The fragments scattered dangerously close to his mother's bare skin.
Alain froze.
His heart thundered.
"I—It's my—"
The words rose instinctively.
Then the room tilted.
The oil lamp flickered violently. Smoke curled upward, stinging his eyes. His father cursed under his breath as he stood, distracted, waving away the smoke.
"Careful," his mother said. "You startled me."
The moment passed.
The truth collapsed back into silence.
Alain lowered his head.
It always happened like this.
Whenever he tried to explain—whenever he felt the words getting close—something intervened. A noise. An accident. A distraction born from coincidence so perfect it felt rehearsed.
As if fate itself were correcting him.
He stopped trying to speak.
Instead, he watched.
He watched how people frowned when he passed by. How adults gently guided their children away from him without meaning to. How whispers followed him through narrow streets.
"Unlucky child."
"Strange one."
"No harm meant… but best to be careful."
He had no friends.
Not because he was cruel.
Not because he was cold.
But because the world seemed to hesitate around him.
One evening, his father returned home later than usual.
His boots were dusty. His expression unreadable.
Alain sat quietly near the hearth, pretending not to listen.
"There's a school opening near the eastern road," his father said, washing his hands. "Small class. New teacher."
Alain's chest tightened.
"A school?" his mother asked, surprised.
His father nodded. "He needs to learn. Can't keep him inside forever."
Alain looked up sharply.
Inside his chest, something twisted.
School meant people.
People meant accidents.
"I'll start him tomorrow," his father continued. "It'll be good for him."
Alain opened his mouth.
The air grew heavy.
The fire cracked loudly, a spark jumping too far and landing on the rug. His mother gasped, rushing to stamp it out.
By the time the smoke cleared—
The decision was already made.
The school stood at the edge of the village, where the paths thinned and the houses grew farther apart.
Wooden walls. Tall windows. The faint smell of chalk and ink.
Alain entered silently, his steps light, deliberate.
Children filled the room in clusters—laughing, whispering, sharing secrets he would never be part of. He chose a seat at the back, near the window, far from shelves and beams and careless elbows.
The chair creaked beneath him.
He froze.
It held.
Barely.
He exhaled.
The teacher entered soon after—a woman with sharp eyes and a voice that demanded attention without raising itself.
She scanned the room, parchment in hand.
"Attendance," she said.
Names were called.
Hands raised.
Voices answered.
Each sound felt distant to Alain, like he was listening from underwater.
Then—
"Alain."
The room stilled.
He hesitated.
Slowly, carefully, he raised his hand.
Light from the window fell across his face.
Pale skin that rarely saw the sun. Hair always slightly unkempt, as if it refused to settle no matter how often it was brushed. His eyes—dark, too observant, carrying something that did not belong to a child.
They did not wander.
They watched.
The teacher paused.
Just for a moment.
"…Yes," she said, after a second too long. "You may sit."
Whispers rippled softly through the room.
Alain lowered his hand.
He did not look away from the window.
Outside, clouds drifted slowly across the sky.
One of them split unnaturally, torn by a sudden gust of wind.
Alain felt it.
That familiar pressure.
That quiet warning.
Misfortune had followed him here.
And it had learned his name.