His name was Daniel, and he was the first person in two years to smile at Amelia.
He'd arrived at Riverside Orphanage on a grey Tuesday morning, brought by a constable who explained that the boy's parents had died of plague. Daniel was seven years old, skinny as a rail, with auburn hair that stuck up in all directions and green eyes that still held a spark of life despite his tragedy.
Mrs. Graves assigned him a bed near Amelia's—the corner where the "problem children" were kept. Daniel didn't seem to mind. He unpacked his small bag (a change of clothes, a wooden horse, and a book he couldn't yet read) and looked around the dormitory with cautious curiosity.
That first night, as the other children whispered and plotted and cried themselves to sleep, Daniel turned to Amelia.
"Hello," he said simply.
Amelia, who'd been lying still and silent as she always did, was so startled she actually looked at him. No one talked to her. Ever.
"I'm Daniel," he continued, seemingly unbothered by her silence. "What's your name?"
"Amelia," she whispered, her voice rough from disuse.
"Nice to meet you, Amelia." He smiled—a genuine, warm smile that transformed his thin face. "I think we're going to be friends."
Amelia's first instinct was to tell him no. To warn him away. To explain that being her friend was dangerous, that everyone who got close to her ended up hurt or dead or worse.
But the smile was so kind. So hopeful. And she was so desperately lonely.
"Okay," she breathed, and felt something fragile kindle in her chest.
-----
Over the next three days, Daniel proved to be relentlessly friendly. He sat next to Amelia at meals, even when the other children snickered and whispered warnings. He shared his meager portions with her when Mrs. Graves gave her less. He talked to her during chores, telling stories about his parents, about the bakery they'd owned, about the life he'd had before plague took everything.
"They were good people," he said one afternoon as they hauled water from the well. "Mama used to make these cherry tarts that were amazing. And Papa would let me help knead the dough. I wasn't very good at it, but he never got mad."
Amelia listened, soaking up the stories like a desert soaking up rain. She'd never had stories like that. Never had parents who taught her things with patience and love.
"What about your parents?" Daniel asked.
"I don't remember them," Amelia said quietly. "I was a baby when… when they left me."
"Oh." Daniel looked sad for her. "That must be hard. Not knowing."
"Sometimes," Amelia admitted. Then, before she could stop herself: "But it's probably better. Everyone who cares about me ends up dead."
Daniel laughed—actually laughed—as if she'd told a joke. "That's silly. How could you make people die? You're just a kid like me."
Amelia wanted to argue, to list all the deaths that followed her like a shadow. But the laughter was so light, so normal, that she found herself almost believing him.
Maybe it had all been coincidence. Maybe she wasn't really cursed.
Maybe she could have a friend.
-----
On the third day, Amelia had the vision.
She was helping Daniel practice his letters—he could recognize most but struggled with reading full words—when the world shifted. The familiar grey fog descended, and suddenly she wasn't in the orphanage schoolroom anymore.
She was outside, in the courtyard. And Daniel was there, climbing the old oak tree that grew near the well. He was laughing, reaching for a branch to pull himself higher.
The branch broke.
Daniel fell, arms windmilling, face changing from joy to shock to terror in an instant. He hit the ground with a sickening crack. His head struck the stone edge of the well.
Blood bloomed across the grey stones like a spreading rose.
And Daniel's green eyes stared up at nothing, empty and dead.
Amelia gasped back into reality, her hands shaking so badly she dropped the slate they'd been writing on. It shattered on the floor.
"Amelia? Are you okay?" Daniel asked, concerned.
She looked at him—alive, vibrant, whole—and felt ice flood her veins.
Three days. The vision always came three days before.
"I'm fine," she lied. "Just… clumsy."
But she wasn't fine. Because she knew what was coming, and she knew—with the awful certainty of experience—that there was nothing she could do to stop it.
-----
Amelia tried anyway.
The next morning, she approached Mrs. Graves. "Ma'am, the oak tree in the courtyard. The branches are rotting. Someone could get hurt."
Mrs. Graves barely looked up from her ledger. "The tree's been there fifty years. It's fine."
"But I saw—"
"What did you see, girl?" Mrs. Graves's eyes narrowed. "Another one of your 'visions'?"
Amelia's mouth went dry. She'd never told anyone about the visions. How did Mrs. Graves know?
"The other children talk," the matron said, reading her expression. "They say you see things. Predict things. That you're cursed." She leaned forward. "Are you cursed, Amelia?"
"No, ma'am."
"Then stop making up stories about trees and get to your chores."
Amelia tried a different approach. She found Daniel at lunch. "Stay away from the oak tree," she said urgently.
Daniel blinked. "What? Why?"
"Just… promise me you won't climb it. Ever."
"Amelia, I climb that tree all the time. It's fun. The view from the top is—"
"Promise me!" Her voice came out sharper than she intended, drawing stares from nearby children.
Daniel looked hurt. "Okay, okay. I promise. I won't climb the tree."
Relief flooded through her. "Thank you."
But that afternoon, during free time, Amelia watched in horror as Martha approached Daniel.
"I heard you promised the freak you wouldn't climb the oak tree," Martha said, loud enough for others to hear.
Daniel flushed. "She's not a freak. She's my friend."
"Your friend?" Martha laughed cruelly. "She's cursed. Everyone knows it. And now she's got you making promises like she owns you."
"She doesn't own me—"
"Then prove it. Climb the tree."
Daniel hesitated, looking toward where Amelia stood frozen. She shook her head frantically, silently begging him not to.
But Martha was still talking. "Unless you're scared? Unless you believe in her silly curses?"
Daniel's face hardened. "I'm not scared of anything."
"No," Amelia whispered. "Daniel, please—"
But he was already walking toward the oak tree, a dozen children following to watch. Amelia ran after him, her heart in her throat.
"Daniel, stop! You don't understand—"
"I understand that I'm not going to let Martha think I'm afraid," he said, grabbing the lowest branch.
"But the vision—"
"There's no such thing as visions, Amelia." He pulled himself up. "You're just worried. It's sweet, but I'm fine. Watch—I'll climb to the top and wave to you."
He climbed. Branch by branch, getting higher. Amelia stood below, every muscle tense, waiting for the inevitable.
At the third branch from the top, Daniel reached for a handhold.
The branch creaked.
Time seemed to slow.
Amelia saw it happen exactly as she'd seen in the vision. The wood splintered. Daniel's expression changed from confident to shocked. He fell, arms flailing, body twisting in midair.
She tried to catch him—actually ran forward with her arms out, as if she could somehow break his fall. But she was too small, too far, too late.
Daniel hit the ground with that same sickening crack.
His head struck the stone well edge.
Blood spread across the grey stones.
And Amelia screamed.
-----
The next hours passed in a blur.
Mrs. Graves running out. The doctor being summoned. Daniel's body being carried inside, blood trailing behind. The other children whispering, staring, pointing at Amelia.
"She knew," Martha said, her voice carrying across the courtyard. "She warned him about the tree. How did she know?"
"She's cursed," another child said.
"She killed him," a third added.
"I didn't!" Amelia sobbed, but no one listened.
The doctor confirmed what everyone already knew: Daniel was dead. Broken neck, cracked skull, massive bleeding. He'd died almost instantly.
"At least he didn't suffer," someone said, as if that made it better.
That night, Amelia lay in her bed, staring at Daniel's empty bunk across from her. His wooden horse sat on the shelf above it. His book lay open where he'd left it.
And his spirit stood at the foot of her bed.
"Daniel?" she whispered.
His ghost looked confused. "Amelia? Where am I? I was climbing the tree, and then—" He looked down at his translucent hands. "Oh. Oh no."
"I'm so sorry," Amelia choked out. "I tried to warn you. I saw it coming, and I tried—"
"You knew?" Daniel's spirit looked at her with something like betrayal. "You knew I was going to die?"
"I tried to stop it! I told you not to climb!"
"But you didn't tell me WHY!" His voice rose, anguished. "You didn't say 'you'll die if you climb that tree!' You just said to stay away. I thought you were being weird, like the others said. If you'd just TOLD me—"
"No one believes me when I tell them the truth," Amelia whispered. "They think I'm cursed. They think I cause it."
Daniel's spirit was silent for a long moment. Then: "Are you? Cursed, I mean?"
"I don't know," Amelia said honestly. "But everyone I care about dies. Everyone."
"So you cared about me?"
"You were my friend." Tears streamed down her face. "My only friend."
Daniel's expression softened. "I was, wasn't I?" He looked at his ghostly form again. "What happens now? Am I stuck like this?"
"I don't know. I'm sorry, Daniel. I'm so, so sorry."
His spirit began to fade. "It's not your fault, Amelia. Martha made me climb. My pride made me climb. You tried to stop me." His voice was growing distant. "Don't blame yourself. Promise me."
"I can't promise that."
"Then promise me you'll keep trying to save people. Even when they don't listen. Even when it hurts. Promise me you'll keep trying."
"Daniel—"
But he was gone, pulled into whatever came next for spirits who weren't ready to let go.
Amelia curled into a ball and wept until she had no tears left.
-----
The next morning, Mrs. Graves called her into the office.
"The children are frightened of you," the matron said bluntly. "They say you predicted the boy's death. That you caused it, somehow."
"I didn't cause it. I tried to prevent it!"
"So you did know he would die."
Amelia realized her mistake too late. "I… I had a feeling. A bad feeling about the tree."
"A feeling. Or a vision?" Mrs. Graves leaned back in her chair. "You're not a normal child, Amelia. I don't know what you are, but you're dangerous to have around the others."
"I'm not dangerous! I'm just—"
"Cursed? Possessed? Demon-touched?" Mrs. Graves waved her hand dismissively. "I don't care which. But I can't have you here anymore. The other children are too afraid."
Amelia's stomach dropped. "You're sending me away?"
"A merchant family is looking for a servant. A girl to help with household chores. You're young, but you're capable. You'll go with them tomorrow."
"But—"
"This is not a discussion. Pack your things."
Amelia returned to the dormitory, where every child avoided her eyes. She packed her meager belongings—an extra dress, the thin blanket, nothing else—and sat on her bed, feeling the weight of Daniel's death crushing her.
She'd had a friend for three days.
Three perfect, hopeful days.
And now he was dead, she was being sent away, and she had learned the cruelest lesson yet: caring about people doesn't just hurt you. It kills them.
-----
That night, Daniel's spirit appeared one last time.
"I'm moving on," he said, looking more peaceful than before. "I can feel it pulling me. But I wanted to say goodbye."
"I'm sorry," Amelia whispered for the hundredth time.
"I know. But Amelia? You have to stop saying sorry for being yourself. You're not cursed. You're just… different. Special, maybe. And someday, someone will see that."
"No one ever will."
"They will," Daniel insisted. "I saw it. You're going to do something important someday. Something amazing. I don't know what, but I felt it. When I was dying, for just a second, I saw… light around you. Beautiful light."
"You're just trying to make me feel better."
"Maybe. But I'm also telling the truth." He smiled one last time—that same warm smile that had made her hope for friendship. "Goodbye, Amelia. And thank you for trying to save me. Even if I was too stubborn to let you."
Then he was gone, truly gone this time, and Amelia was alone again.
Seven years old.
Blood on her hands that only she could see.
And a future that looked darker with every passing day.