At first, they stared at her the way people stare at something they do not understand but know they should fear. Then, many began to slowly back away. The road was scattered with small, broken bodies. Feathers lay twisted in the dirt. The air still felt wrong, heavy and bruised.
The mother held her child tightly, whispering his name over and over as if afraid he might disappear again. She did not look at the birds. She did not look at the woman who had saved him.
Others did.
A man crossed himself and muttered a prayer under his breath. Another took a step backward. Someone whispered the word witch as if testing how it tasted.
The goddess felt the weight of their eyes like hands pressing against her skin.
"I did not mean for that to happen," she said, though her voice shook. "I only wanted to help him."
No one answered.
A woman pulled her daughter behind her skirt. A dog barked, sharp and panicked, before being dragged away. Fear rippled outward, quiet but relentless.
The mother finally looked at her.
"Thank you," she said, and the words sounded torn in half. Gratitude and terror lived together in her voice. "But you should go."
The goddess nodded. She turned away before they could say anything worse. She did not want to hear what name they would give her next. Her legs carried her out of the village on instinct alone. By the time she reached the fields, her vision had begun to blur. The ground tilted beneath her feet. A sharp pain bloomed behind her eyes. She made it as far as a stand of trees before her strength gave out.
She collapsed.
Her body convulsed as if trying to tear itself apart from the inside. Heat flooded her skin, then vanished, leaving her shivering violently. Blood ran from her nose, warm and sudden, staining her hands red.
So this was the cost.
She curled onto her side, gasping, clutching her chest as the truth settled over her with crushing clarity. To create, something else must be destroyed. She had known this once, in a distant, abstract way. Balance had always been effortless to her then.
Now it was personal.
She thought of the birds. Their sudden, silent fall. She pressed her forehead into the dirt and sobbed, the sound raw and unfamiliar.
"I am sorry," she whispered. She did not know who she was apologizing to. The boy. The birds. The world. Herself.
Her body trembled until exhaustion dragged her into darkness. Above her, the sky was too still.