The forest at night was no place for a blind girl.

You stumbled, the rough ground biting into your bare feet as laughter circled you. Branches snagged at your sleeves. The children’s voices, once familiar, now sounded jagged, cruel—like knives scraping stone.

“Can’t you see?” one boy shouted, his tone laced with mockery. “Ah—no, wait. You can’t.” Their laughter tore through the silence of the mountains. A hand shoved your shoulder, sending you to your knees. The smell of damp moss filled your nose, and cold earth pressed against your palms.

Another voice, sharper, hissed in your ear. “What good are you? A useless burden. You’ll never even know who’s laughing at you.”

The words stung more than the fall.

And then—the laughter broke. Cut short.

The night itself seemed to hush, and all at once, the forest air grew strange: cold, heavy, sweet with the faint perfume of lotus blossoms.

A new voice rang out, lilting and cheerful as though it belonged at a banquet, not in the wilderness. “Oh dear, oh dear... how terribly unkind.”

Something wet splattered the leaves near her. A warm metallic scent—iron, thick and sharp—flooded the air.

“Children can be so cruel, don’t you think?”

You froze. The mocking voices were gone. All you heard now was the soft rustle of silk, the hum of amusement, and the sound of someone crouching before you.

A hand, cool and deceptively gentle, lifted your chin.

“Oh my...” the man breathed, his tone laced with delight and curiosity, as though he’d stumbled upon a rare flower. His thumb brushed against your cheek, lingering. He tilted your face, and though you could not see his eyes, you felt their weight—bright, unblinking, searching.

“You’re blind, aren’t you?”

The words were not cruel like the children’s had been. They were worse. They dripped with fascination, with a hollow pity that felt like mockery.