Thomas Chen had lived alone for fifteen years.
After his wife died in childbirth along with their stillborn son, he'd retreated to this cottage on the edge of Millbrook village. He kept to himself, tended his small garden, repaired tools for the villagers when they asked. He was kind but distant, helpful but never close. The pain of loss had taught him that love was a luxury he could no longer afford.
Until the night he heard crying on his doorstep.
The baby was wrapped in a blanket that seemed to glow in the moonlight—though when Thomas blinked, it was just ordinary cloth, worn and soft. The infant couldn't have been more than a few days old, umbilical cord barely healed, skin still bearing the flush of new life.
"Where did you come from?" he whispered, scooping her up carefully. She was so small, so fragile. Her eyes—an unusual color, somewhere between grey and violet—fixed on his face with startling intensity for one so young.
Thomas looked around, searching for whoever might have left her. But the night was empty, the road deserted. No frantic mother, no desperate father, no sign of anyone at all.
"Someone left you," he said softly, studying the baby's perfect features. "But why here? Why me?"
The infant made a small sound, almost like she was answering, and Thomas felt something in his chest crack open—that sealed-off place where he'd locked away his grief.
"You need a name," he murmured, carrying her inside. "Let's see… Amelia. That was my grandmother's name. She was strong, survived things that would have broken others." He touched the baby's tiny hand, and her fingers immediately curled around his thumb with surprising strength. "You'll need to be strong too, little one. This world isn't kind to those without family."
That first night, Thomas barely slept. He'd kept his wife's things—the cradle he'd carved, the tiny clothes she'd sewn in hope. Bringing them out hurt, but this baby needed them. Amelia needed them.
By dawn, he'd made a decision. He would ask around the village, try to find her parents. But if no one claimed her… well, perhaps fate had given him a second chance.
The next week confirmed it. No one in Millbrook or the surrounding villages reported a missing infant. No traveling merchants had seen an abandoned baby. It was as if Amelia had simply appeared from nowhere.
"Looks like it's you and me," Thomas told her as he fed her goat's milk from a cloth. She suckled hungrily, her strange eyes never leaving his face. "I'm not sure I'll be a good father. Lost my own chance at that. But I'll try. I promise you, little Amelia, I'll try."
And he did.
-----
The seasons changed, and Amelia grew. By six months, she was sitting up, grabbing at everything with curious hands. Thomas found himself laughing—actually laughing—for the first time in years as she knocked over his tools, got dirt in her hair, and babbled nonsense at the chickens.
"You're trouble," he'd say, but there was no heat in it. Only wonder that this tiny person had brought light back into his dark world.
The villagers noticed the change too. Thomas started coming to the market more often, Amelia strapped to his back in a cloth carrier. He'd smile and wave, would stop to chat about weather and crops. The blacksmith's wife commented that it was good to see Thomas living again.
"She's a blessing," Thomas agreed, bouncing Amelia gently as she reached for a butterfly. "Found her on my doorstep, if you can believe it. Someone's misfortune became my miracle."
But not everyone saw it that way.
Old Meredith, the village wisewoman, had watched Amelia with narrowed eyes at the market. She'd seen the way shadows seemed to gather near the child when she cried, how candles would flicker when she laughed. Small things. Strange things.
"That child," she muttered to anyone who'd listen, "there's something odd about her. Mark my words."
Most dismissed her concerns. Thomas was happy, the baby was healthy. What more mattered?
Then came Amelia's first birthday.
Thomas had planned a small celebration—just the two of them. He'd made a cake (slightly lopsided but sweet), bought a small wooden toy from the traveling merchant. Amelia had taken her first steps that morning, stumbling from the chair to his arms, and his heart had nearly burst with pride.
"My clever girl," he'd praised, swinging her up. "Soon you'll be running all over, and I'll never keep up with you."
That afternoon, he took her to the village to show off her new skill. She toddled around the village square, Thomas hovering close, and drew coos from the women and smiles from the men.
It was perfect.
It was the last perfect day of Amelia's life.
-----
That evening, as Thomas prepared their dinner, Amelia played with her new toy—a carved horse on wheels. She rolled it back and forth, delighted by the clicking sound the wheels made.
Thomas didn't notice when she went quiet.
Didn't see when her eyes went distant, unfocused.
Didn't hear the small whimper that escaped her lips.
But he heard her scream.
Thomas spun around to find Amelia rigid, eyes rolled back, tiny body convulsing. "No!" He snatched her up, cradling her. "Amelia! Amelia, what's wrong?"
Her eyes snapped open—but they weren't focused on him. They looked through him, beyond him, at something only she could see. Her mouth moved, forming words she shouldn't know.
"Papa… hurts… Papa don't go…"
Thomas's blood ran cold. She'd never called him Papa before. Never said more than "da" and "ba."
"I'm right here," he assured her, though his hands shook. "Papa's right here."
But Amelia wasn't seeing him. She was seeing something else. Something that terrified her. She thrashed in his arms, crying, reaching for things that weren't there.
Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped. Amelia went limp, panting, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. She blinked up at Thomas with recognition finally returning.
"There you are," he breathed, relief flooding through him. "You're okay. You're okay."
But his relief was premature.
That night, Thomas woke to pain in his chest—sharp, sudden, stealing his breath. He tried to sit up, to call for help, but his body wouldn't obey. The room swam, darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision.
His last thought, as consciousness faded, was of the baby sleeping peacefully in the next room.
*Please,* he prayed to gods he'd long stopped believing in, *let someone find her. Don't let her be alone.*
-----
Morning came. Amelia woke in her cradle, babbling cheerfully. When no one came to feed her, her babbles turned to cries. When no one answered her cries, they became screams.
By afternoon, the baker's wife, worried she hadn't seen Thomas at market, came to check. She found him collapsed beside his bed, skin already cold. And in the cradle, a year-old child screaming herself hoarse, confused and terrified and hungry.
The baker's wife scooped Amelia up, shushing her gently even as horror filled her heart. "Poor lamb," she whispered. "Poor little lamb. How long have you been alone?"
She carried Amelia outside, away from the sight of Thomas's body. The village gathered, murmuring. Old Meredith pushed through the crowd, took one look at the baby, and her face went grim.
"I told you," she said darkly. "I told you there was something wrong with that child."
"What are you talking about?" the baker's wife demanded. "Thomas died of a weak heart. Nothing more!"
"Did he?" Meredith's eyes fixed on Amelia with something like fear. "Or did that thing drain his life? I've heard stories of cursed children, demons in human form. They bring death to all who care for them."
"That's nonsense!"
But the seed was planted. And over the next days, as arrangements were made for Thomas's burial and Amelia's care, the whispers grew.
"Strange how he died so suddenly…"
"And the child unharmed…"
"Remember how shadows followed her…"
"What did Meredith call her? Cursed?"
At the funeral, no one wanted to hold Amelia. She was passed from person to person like something dangerous, each holding her at arm's length, each eager to hand her off. The baby, too young to understand but old enough to feel the rejection, cried inconsolably.
Finally, the village elder—a kind woman named Margaret—took charge. "Enough of this superstitious nonsense. The child needs care, and Thomas would want her looked after. Who will take her?"
Silence.
Margaret's expression hardened. "Very well. We'll send her to the orphanage in Ashford. They'll find her a home."
As Margaret carried Amelia to the cart that would take her away, the baby's cries took on a new quality—not just grief, but something deeper. A soul-deep sorrow that seemed too vast for such a small being.
In the spirit realm, invisible to mortal eyes, two shades stood watch. Noctis and Aurelia, bound to their daughter by love and sacrifice, could only observe. They couldn't intervene, couldn't comfort, couldn't hold her.
"She hurts," Aurelia whispered, tears of light streaming down her translucent face. "Our baby hurts, and I cannot—"
"I know," Noctis said, his voice rough with anguish. His arms ached to hold his daughter. "But she lives. She LIVES, my love. That's what matters."
"For how long?" Aurelia's voice broke. "If this is what one year brings…"
"She's stronger than she knows," Noctis insisted, though his own heart cracked seeing his daughter's pain. "She has our blood, our power. She will survive this. She will survive everything they throw at her."
"She shouldn't have to," Aurelia said.
"No," Noctis agreed quietly. "She shouldn't."
The cart rolled away from Millbrook, carrying a child who would remember none of this consciously—but whose soul would carry the scars. Her first lesson: love ends in loss. Her first belief: she brought death to those who cared.
It was a lie, of course. Thomas had died of a heart weakened by years of grief and solitude, made worse by age. Amelia's vision had been her first glimpse of her gift—seeing death approach, feeling the weight of a soul's departure.
But she was too young to understand. Too young to explain.
So she became the cursed child. The calamity.
And her true suffering was only beginning.