I loved wearing white dresses and running through the village like a princess from one of the old stories. The fabric would catch the wind, and for a moment, I could pretend I belonged—like I wasn't watched, whispered about, or quietly feared.
The Head Witch hated it.
She said white was foolish, impractical, and far too visible. She said a Daughter of Insomnia should blend into the shadows, not dance in the light. But I was never very good at being what they wanted.
So I found a place where my imagination could breathe.
Our village was hidden behind a mountain, veiled by a great roaring waterfall that thundered like the voice of the earth itself. The mist kept our secrets, and the water hid us from the outside world. We were forbidden from going near it—especially behind it. The elders said it was dangerous. Sacred. Cursed.
But you know me.
I've always had a weakness for broken rules.
Whenever I could, I slipped behind the waterfall, where the noise swallowed my footsteps and the world felt untouched. I collected smooth, shining stones, odd little treasures the water had shaped over time. To me, it felt like a kingdom no one else wanted—so it became mine.
That morning, the sun was bright and warm, glinting off the mountain like a warning we chose to ignore.
An announcement echoed through the village: it seemed the outside world had discovered signs of life around the mountains. The order was clear—no one was to leave. No wandering. No risks.
Fear settled into the air.
But I had made a promise.
My sheep—my only loyal companion—had been following me all morning, tugging at my dress as if reminding me. I had sworn I'd show him the waterfall that day. And a promise, once spoken, feels heavier to me than any rule.
I hesitated. Just for a moment.
Then I decided.
I lifted my skirt, checked that no one was watching, and slipped away—toward the roar of the waterfall, toward the place I was never meant to go, unaware that this single choice would change everything.