I used to think loneliness was something you grew out of.
That one day, when I became an adult, I'd stop feeling that quiet ache at the end of every day—the one that makes you stare at the ceiling and wonder why the world feels so far away.
My parents divorced when I was seven. There was no shouting, no tears—just cold papers signed in an office and the smell of rain when we left the courthouse. They both said they'd still love me, that nothing would change. But everything did.
A few months later, they each remarried. My father had another daughter. My mother moved to another city and gave birth to a son.
And me? I became the child who didn't fit anywhere.
For a while, they tried. They sent money, called on holidays, asked if I was eating well. But when I turned twelve, the calls came less often. I was left in the care of an aunt who barely tolerated my presence—someone who treated me like a temporary guest that overstayed her welcome.
I grew up learning silence as a language.
When you're quiet, people forget you're lonely.
Years passed, and I built a life that looked fine on paper. I studied, graduated, found a job. Every weekday I took the same train, smiled at the same strangers, came home to an apartment that always smelled faintly of coffee and detergent. There was no one waiting for me, but that was okay. I convinced myself that solitude meant peace.
Yet sometimes, when I'd pass by families walking hand in hand, or mothers laughing with their children, a dull ache would twist somewhere deep inside me.
I never really longed for romance. What I wanted was something simpler—
a home that didn't feel temporary, a voice that called me Mom.
That night, it was raining again. I came home from work past midnight, shoes soaked, mind heavy with numbers and deadlines. I dropped my bag, kicked off my heels, and poured myself a cup of instant coffee. It was my fourth that day.
The city hummed faintly outside my window—cars, neon lights, life moving on. I sat on the couch, staring at the wall, thinking about nothing and everything at once. The coffee had gone cold when my thoughts began to blur.
Maybe I'm just tired, I told myself. Just five minutes of rest.
My eyes grew heavier. My body felt strange, weighted, as though sinking into something soft and endless. I tried to move, but the air turned thick, and the faint scent of coffee faded into something sharper—iron, smoke, and earth.
.
.
.
When I opened my eyes again, I wasn't in my apartment.
I was lying on the ground.
The air was freezing. The first thing I felt was pain—searing, spreading from my ribs to my legs. When I tried to breathe, the scent hit me: blood.
Everywhere.
It coated my hands, soaked the fabric clinging to my skin. The world spun, and when it steadied, I saw what surrounded me—broken wood, a splintered carriage wheel, lifeless bodies sprawled beside me.
My stomach lurched. I crawled backward, choking on panic. The ground was wet, the soil dark with mud and crimson. I looked down—and froze.
My abdomen was round. Large. Heavy.
For a second, my mind went blank. I pressed my trembling palms to my belly.
It moved.
A kick.
My throat closed. "No… no, this can't be real."
I wasn't pregnant. I had never even been in love.
But this body—this body—was.
I stared at my hands as if they belonged to someone else. They were slender, paler than mine had ever been. My reflection in a shard of glass showed a face I didn't recognize.
Fear clawed up my spine. My head throbbed. Every instinct screamed to run, to wake up, to go home—but there was no home, no bed, no dream to crawl back to.
When I turned, I saw the cliff. The carriage must have fallen from up there. The drop was steep, jagged, a grave waiting to happen.
And somehow, I survived.
The thought barely formed when another pain tore through my abdomen—raw and merciless. I gasped, curling forward, clutching my belly. The baby inside shifted violently. Tears welled in my eyes.
Not now… please, not now.
My vision blurred. I crawled, dragging myself toward the trees beyond the wreck. My arms shook. My legs refused to obey. Each movement left streaks of blood in the dirt. The cold seeped into my bones until I could barely feel my fingers.
Then—footsteps. Light, quick, approaching from behind the trees.
My lips parted, but my voice was gone. Darkness gathered at the edges of my sight, swallowing sound, swallowing fear, until I was left with nothing but the echo of my heartbeat—and the fragile rhythm of the one inside me.
.
.
.
When I woke again, everything was soft.
A bed beneath me, a blanket over my legs. The air smelled of herbs and rain-soaked leaves. For a long moment, I didn't move.
Had it been a dream?
Then I touched my stomach. Still swollen. Still alive.
Tears spilled before I realized it. I wasn't crying from fear anymore, but from relief. Whoever this body belonged to—whatever cruel fate had thrown me here—at least the child still lived.
The door opened with a quiet creak.
A woman entered, her steps soundless, her presence unreal. Her skin glowed faintly under the moonlight seeping through the window, and her long, silver hair shimmered like strands of glass. But it was her eyes that stole my breath—silver too, clear and ancient, like they'd seen centuries pass.
An elf.
It shouldn't have been possible, but there she was, standing at the edge of my bed, holding a bowl of pale blue liquid that smelled faintly of flowers.
"You're… awake," she said softly, though the words at first were foreign, melodic, incomprehensible. She hesitated, then repeated them again, slower this time, her accent strange but careful. "You… and the child. Both alive. Fortunate."
Her voice was gentle, but my mind could barely grasp her meaning. The words scraped against confusion. I stared at her, my lips trembling. "Where… am I?"
The elf tilted her head, her expression unreadable—but before she could respond, pain shot through me again, deep and sharp.
I gasped. The bowl fell from her hands, crashing to the floor. She called out in that same melodic language, and within moments, several others rushed in.
Their voices blurred together as the pain consumed me. Hands held mine, pressed against my shoulders, voices urged me to breathe. I barely heard them.
I was losing strength, losing breath, losing myself.
This world isn't mine, I thought weakly, tears streaming down my face. This body, this pain—it doesn't belong to me.
But the tiny heartbeat inside me did.
Through the haze, I prayed—not to return home, not even for understanding—but for life. For both of us.
As the world faded into white, I heard it—soft, fragile, yet defiant.
A baby's cry.
And then, nothing but silence.