Before anything changed, the house was kind to Reina. Servants smiled when she passed. Neighbors greeted her warmly. Even the cook saved the sweetest fruit for her bowl.
"Little Reina," they would say, "you grow prettier every day."
She never understood why they repeated that so often. But she liked the way their voices sounded when they said it.
Warm.
Like sunlight.
In the mornings, she followed the maids as they swept the veranda, copying their motions with a tiny broom made of tied twigs. When she grew tired, she sat beside them and hummed to herself, legs swinging.
"She's just like her mother," one servant whispered fondly.
"Yes," another sighed. "Exactly like her."
Her father noticed too. One evening as she toddled into his study, he looked up from his papers and paused. The lamplight caught her face. For a moment, his expression softened.
"Reina," he said quietly.
She brightened immediately and walked toward him. He reached out, adjusting the ribbon slipping from her hair.
"You resemble her more every day."
He did not say the name. He did not need to. From the doorway someone watched. The new wife stood very still, her hand resting over the curve of her stomach.
Her smile did not move. Her eyes did.
They lingered on the child.
On her face.
On her eyes.
On her resemblance.
The servants' whispers reached her ears.
Just like her mother.
So beautiful.
Such a lovely child.
Her fingers tightened slowly against her sleeve.
That night, she did not sleep. Moonlight lay pale across the floor as she sat upright beside the open window. The house was silent. Even the wind seemed to avoid her. Her reflection stared back at her from the dark glass.
Not as young.
Not as radiant.
Not as remembered.
But that child...
That child shone without effort. Her nails pressed into her palm.
The next morning she smiled sweetly at Reina. That afternoon she asked a servant for directions.
And that evening she left the house alone to the Witch's hut.
It stood beyond the edge of the village where the road narrowed and the trees grew too close together, their branches knitting overhead until the sky became thin strips of gray. The air smelled damp.
Rotten leaves.
Old earth.
The old woman inside did not look surprised to see her.
"You took your time," the witch said.
Her voice sounded like dry paper folding. The stepmother did not bow.
"I want a curse."
The witch's eyes glinted.
"For whom?" The witch asked.
"A child."
Silence stretched.
Somewhere outside, a crow cried once.
"What did she do to you?" the witch asked.
"...Nothing."
The witch smiled slowly.
"Ah."
She reached beneath the table and placed something on the wood between them.
A small doll.
Cloth body.
Thread limbs.
Blank face.
"Say what you want," the witch said.
"I want the world to see her as ugly," the step mother said without tremble.
The candle flame flickered.
The witch tilted her head.
"That is simple," she said, leaning forward. "But curses are living things. They breathe. They listen. And sometimes... they break."
The step mother's eyes narrowed.
"What breaks it?"
The witch's smile thinned.
"Love."
Silence.
"If enough people love her," the witch continued, "the spell will crack like thin ice."
The step mother's fingers curled.
"That won't happen."
The witch shrugged.
"Then you have nothing to fear," she said, pushing the doll forward. "Bury this where no one will find it. Deep. Hidden. Forgotten. As long as it sleeps beneath the earth, the world will see what you wish them to see."
The step mother picked it up.
The cloth felt warm.
Almost alive.
"And if someone digs it up?" she asked.
The witch's eyes gleamed.
"Then truth will return."
Wind rattled the shutters.
"Remember," the witch added softly,
"curses do not create ugliness."
Her smile sharpened.
"They only move it."
That night when everyone was getting ready to sleep she returned. Clouds covered the moon. She stood in the yard in darkness. The earth was soft near the far wall where no servants walked and no flowers grew.
She knelt.
Dug.
Placed the doll inside.
Covered it.
Pressed the soil flat.
Behind her the house slept.
Inside, Reina dreamed peacefully.
The wind passed once across the yard.
Then stilled.
In the morning nothing looked different. But when Reina stepped into the hall, the maid who usually greeted her did not smile.