The mud was deep. It sucked at your boots with a wet, heavy mouth, pulling you down into the dark earth. You ran. Your breath came in sharp, ragged hitches. The air tasted of iron and rot. Behind you, the sound of shuffling feet. Not human. Not quite. You knew the weight of them. You knew the cold.

Stop. You stopped. Your legs trembled. You looked up. The house loomed above you. It was old. Stone. Grey. It had stood there for a hundred years. It had watched you grow. It had watched you change.

You were not a boy anymore. You were not a girl. You were something else. The village called you a witch. The priest called you a demon. Your mother called you *love*. She called it like a prayer. She called it with her hands.

You climbed the porch. The wood groaned. You kicked the door. It flew open.

Margaret was in the kitchen. She was washing a basin. The water was brown. She did not turn. She knew you were there. She always knew.

"Did you eat?" she asked. Her voice was low. Rough. Like sand on stone.

"I ran," you said. Your voice shook. "They saw me."

Margaret turned. Her face was a map of lines. Deep. Carved by wind and worry. Her eyes were bright. Too bright. She looked at you. She did not see a monster. She saw a child. She saw her son. Or her daughter. It did not matter. She saw blood.

"Come in," she said. "Close the door."

You obeyed. You closed the door. The latch clicked. A small sound. A safe sound.

She handed you a towel. It was dry. It smelled of lavender. You dried your face. The mud fell away. You looked in the mirror on the wall.

You saw your eyes. They were yellow. Not gold. Yellow. Like a cat. Like a wolf. The pupils were slits. They narrowed. They widened.

You flinched. Margaret saw it.

"Look at me," she said.

You looked.

"You are hungry," she said. It was not a question.

"I am cold," you lied.

"You are afraid," she said. "That is good. Fear keeps you sharp."

She moved to the table. She pushed aside a pile of letters. The ink was dry. The names were faded. *Edward. James. Thomas.* Men who had come before. Men who had left.

"Why do they hate you?" you asked.

"Because you are different," she said. "Because you do not bleed like them. Because you heal too fast. Because you do not sleep."

"I don't want to be different."

Margaret laughed. It was a dry sound. A crack in the wood.

"You cannot choose your skin, child. You can only choose how you wear it."

She went to the pantry. She took out a loaf of bread. It was hard. Stale. She broke it with her hands. She handed you a piece.

"Eat."

You ate. The taste was chalk. Dust. But it filled the hollow in your stomach. You chewed. You swallowed.

"Who sent the last one?" you asked. "The priest. Did he send the dogs?"

Margaret did not answer. She wiped the table. She was careful. Methodical.

"He sent the letter," she said. "He said you were dangerous. He said you were eating the livestock."

"I am not eating the livestock."

"Then why are they dead?"

"Because they are sick. Because the water is bad. I have seen the rot in their lungs."

"Will you tell them that?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because they will not listen. They want a monster. They need a monster. If I am a monster, they can kill me. If I am just a sick woman, they have to help me. They do not want to help."

Margaret stopped wiping. She looked at you. Her eyes were hard.

"You are not a monster," she said.

"Am I?"

"You are my child. That is enough."

The wind howled outside. It shook the windowpanes. The glass rattled. You jumped. You always jumped. You were quick. You were light. You moved like smoke.

Margaret saw you flinch. She reached out. She touched your hand. Her skin was warm. Dry.

"Stay," she said. "Tonight, stay."

"I have to go."

"Why?"

"They will come back. With torches. With steel."

"Let them come."

"I cannot fight them all."

"You do not have to fight," she said. "You have to run. You have to hide. You have to survive."

"I am tired of hiding."

"Survival is not hiding. Survival is living. Even when it hurts. Even when you are alone."

She stood up. She walked to the corner. She opened a small door. A cellar. The air that rose was cold. Damp.

"Come down," she said.

You followed her. The stairs were narrow. Stone. You descended. The darkness pressed in. You felt the walls. You felt the cold.

At the bottom, a small room. A bed. A table. A candle.

Margaret lit the candle. The flame flickered. It cast long shadows.

"This is where you sleep," she said. "When they come. When the world breaks. You come here. You stay still. You breathe. And you wait."

"Wait for what?"

"For dawn," she said. "For the sun to rise. For the fear to pass."

You sat on the bed. The straw was stiff. It smelled of earth. You put your head in your hands. Your fingers dug into your scalp.

"They think I am evil," you whispered.

"No," Margaret said. "They think I am evil. For protecting you."

"Are you?"

She looked at you. Her face was unreadable. In the candlelight, she looked old. Very old.

"I am your mother," she said. "That is the only truth that matters."

You looked at her. You wanted to believe her. You wanted to be normal. You wanted to bleed red. You wanted to die like everyone else.

But you did not.

You watched her. You saw the way her hands trembled. You saw the way she flinched when the wind hit the window. She was afraid. She was afraid for you.

And you were afraid for her.

"Will you leave me?" you asked.

She sat down. She took your hand. Her grip was strong.

"No," she said. "I will never leave you. Even if I have to burn this house down. Even if I have to kill them. I will not leave you."

It was a promise. It was a threat. It was both.

You leaned against her. You felt her heartbeat. It was steady. Strong.

"Tell me a story," you said.

Margaret smiled. It was a small thing. A crack in the stone.

"Once," she said, "there was a girl who was born with wings."

You listened. You did not move. You did not breathe. You just listened.

"She was afraid of the sky," Margaret continued. "Because the sky was high. And the fall was long."

"What did she do?"

"She stayed on the ground," Margaret said. "She walked. She ran. She hid in the caves. She told herself the wings were a curse."

"Was it a curse?"

"No," Margaret said. "It was a gift. But she was too afraid to see it."

"You are the girl," you said.

"I am the mother," Margaret said. "I am the one who holds the cage."

You pulled back. You looked at her. You saw the truth then.

She was not protecting you from them.

She was keeping you there.

"You knew," you said. "You knew they would come. You knew I could fly. You kept me here. In this hole. To keep me safe. To keep me quiet."

Margaret did not deny it. She did not speak.

"You are the trap," you said.

"I am the shelter," she said.

"It is the same thing."

"You are safe here."

"I am a prisoner."

"You are alive."

The candle flickered. The shadow of the flame danced on the wall.

"You could have told me," you said. "You could have taught me. You could have let me run."

"I am afraid," she said. "I am afraid of the world. I am afraid of what they will do to you."

"They will do nothing," you said. "Because I am not what they think I am. I am not a monster. I am not a devil. I am just... different."

"And different is dangerous," Margaret said.

"Not if you stand up. Not if you fight."

"I will not fight," Margaret said. "I am too old. I am too weak."

"You are not weak."

"I am tired," she said. "I have carried this secret for twenty years. I have lied. I have hidden. I have kept you in the dark. Because the light hurts."

You stood up. You walked to the small window. It was low. It was covered in grime. You wiped it with your sleeve.

The night was black. The moon was high. It was full. It was bright.

You looked at your hands. They were pale. They were thin. But they were yours.

"I am leaving," you said.

Margaret gasped. "No."

"I have to go."

"If you go, they will kill you."

"Maybe," you said. "Or maybe they will see me. Maybe they will see that I am not a monster. Maybe they will see a person."

"You are a risk," Margaret said. "You are a gamble."

"I am your child," you said. "And I am leaving."

You moved to the door. Your hand was on the latch.

"Wait," Margaret said. Her voice was soft. Broken.

You turned.

She was crying. Tears ran down her cheeks. They mixed with the dust.

"I love you," she said. "I have never loved anything more. I kept you here because I wanted you to be safe. I wanted you to be mine. And that was my sin."

You looked at her. You saw the pain in her eyes. It was deep. It was old. It was real.

"I love you too," you said. "But I have to go."

You opened the door. The cold air rushed in. It smelled of rain. Of earth. Of freedom.

Margaret did not stop you. She stood by the table. She watched you. Her face was a mask of grief.

"Come back," she said. "When it is safe."

"I will come back," you said. "But not tonight."

You stepped out. The mud was cold. The night was wide.

You ran. You did not look back. You could not.

You ran until your lungs burned. You ran until your legs gave out. You ran into the dark.

And you flew.

Not with wings. But with your will. You leaped over the fence. You jumped over the ditch. You moved like the wind.

The house shrank behind you. It became a speck. A shadow.

You were alone. You were free.

And you were afraid.

But you were alive.