The rain fell in sheets, washing away the last traces of footprints in the muddy path. A woman stood at the edge of the village, her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders, though no fabric could shield her from the cold inside her bones.
She was known once—loved, cherished. A wife. A mother. But that was before the rumors. Before the whispers turned to accusations, before the village elders decreed her exile.
They said she had cursed her own child. That her hands, meant to soothe, had instead stolen breath. They did not see how she wept, how she begged the spirits to return what had been taken. They only saw grief turn to madness, and madness was dangerous.
Now, she wandered the outskirts, watching the windows glow with candlelight, hearing the laughter of children that would never be hers again.
And yet, the truth lay in the grave she visited each night. A small mound of earth, unmarked, save for the wildflowers she placed upon it. Her son had been ill, the fever taking him before dawn. No hex, no dark magic—just the cruel hand of fate.
Still, the village feared her.
And so, the forsaken mother walked the lonely path, vanishing into the mist, her lullabies carried away by the wind.
