The sky was clear that morning, painted in a soft blue that made the world seem gentle and harmless. Sunlight spread across the village like a quiet promise, and for a moment Reina wondered if perhaps things might be better today.
She walked toward the well again. Not because she needed water, but because hope is a habit children do not know how to break.
The village children were already gathered there, crouched beside the stones and drawing shapes in the dirt with sticks. Reina recognized them immediately. They were the same girls who used to braid flowers with her and the same boys who once chased dragonflies beside her along the dusty road. Her steps slowed as she approached. She folded her hands politely in front of her the way her mother had taught her.
"...Hello," she said softly.
The children looked up at once.
For a moment no one spoke. The air between them seemed to tighten.
One boy blinked in surprise.
"Why is she back?"
A girl leaned toward her friend and whispered loudly enough for Reina to hear.
"Her face looks worse today."
Reina's fingers curled slightly into her sleeves. Another child squinted openly at her, tilting his head as though studying something unpleasant.
"...She looks like a goblin."
A few of the others laughed. The sound was not loud, but it carried through the quiet morning and echoed against the stone walls of the well.
Reina stood very still. She did not speak or move. She did not try to defend herself. One boy pointed toward her.
"My mother said not to play with her."
Another nodded eagerly. "Mine too."
The first girl continued staring at Reina's face without even pretending to be polite.
"...She's ugly," she said.
The word fell softly into the space between them.
Almost gently.
But it did not feel gentle.
Inside Reina, something folded inward very quietly, like paper bending along a crease that could never be smoothed out again.
"Oh," she said.
That was all.
She bowed politely.
"...I'm sorry."
She did not know what she was apologizing for. She only knew that apologies sometimes made people kinder. This time they did not.
So she turned and walked away. Her steps were slow and careful, as if she were afraid even the sound of her footsteps might bother them.
Behind her the children's voices rose again.
"She really is strange."
"Her eyes look weird."
"Don't look at her too long."
Reina kept walking until their voices faded into the distance.
She found her father in his study.
Papers covered the desk in neat stacks, and fresh ink still glistened beneath the lamplight. He did not look up when she stepped into the room. Reina stopped near the doorway and waited patiently, just as she had always been taught.
"...Father?" she said quietly.
He sighed, not loudly, but enough that she heard it.
"What is it?" he asked.
Reina clasped her hands together in front of her. Her voice sounded very small in the quiet room.
"...Am I strange?"
His pen stopped moving. Slowly he lifted his head, and his eyes settled on her face. For a long moment he said nothing. Reina waited because adults always answered questions.
But when his expression changed, it was not with warmth or concern. There was no pride in his eyes the way there used to be. Instead, something like irritation crept across his face.
"...Why would you ask that?" he said.
"The children said so." Reina said.
Silence lingered in the room.
His gaze sharpened slightly.
"You shouldn't wander around bothering people," he said at last.
Reina blinked in confusion.
"I wasn't bothering them," she replied softly. "I only said hello."
He placed his pen down on the desk with a quiet but final sound.
"If they said that," he answered coolly, "then you must have done something to deserve it."
The room grew very still.
Reina's fingers tightened in the sleeves of her kimono.
"...I see," she said.
She bowed her head politely.
"Yes, Father."
But he had already returned to his papers and did not look up again.
Reina remained there for a moment longer, waiting. When it became clear he would not speak again, she quietly turned and left the room.
Her stepmother was waiting in the hallway. She had heard everything.
"Well?" Step mother asked lightly. "Did you trouble him again?"
Reina shook her head quickly.
"No, Madam."
The woman's gaze drifted slowly across the child's face, examining it with open dislike.
"How unsightly," she murmured.
Reina lowered her eyes.
"I'm sorry."
The woman's lips curved into a faint smile.
"Hold out your hands."
Reina obeyed immediately. She lifted her palms toward the woman without hesitation. They were small hands.
Trusting hands.
The switch struck without warning.
A sharp sting flashed across her skin.
Her fingers flinched, but she did not pull them away.
The switch struck again.
A thin red line appeared across her palm.
Again.
She bit her lip.
Again.
The woman's voice remained calm and even.
"You must learn not to embarrass this household."
Again.
Reina's vision blurred, but she refused to cry. Children who cried were troublesome, and she did not want to be troublesome anymore.
At last the strikes stopped.
"Go," the woman said.
Reina bowed obediently.
"...Yes, Madam."
She walked away slowly, careful not to move too quickly, as if the pain in her hands might spill out if she did.
Behind her, the woman watched with quiet satisfaction.
Because the curse was working.
And far beneath the earth outside the house, the small buried doll lay warm in the darkness.