Ten years earlier.
The winter that year hadn't just been cold—it had been cruel.
Elizabeth couldn't remember exactly when she'd stopped counting the days. Perhaps it was after the third consecutive night sleeping huddled behind a closed tavern, her stomach aching so much it felt like it was being devoured from the inside. Perhaps it was when she realized that no one called her by her name anymore—because no one knew what it was.
She was twelve years old.
And she was dying.
Not all at once. Not dramatically.
But slowly.
The illness had come first as a low fever and a persistent cough. Then, constant weakness. Her arms were too thin, her legs too unsteady. She tried to work—carry water, clean floors, anything—but her body simply couldn't take it. The tavern and shop owners had no patience for a child who could barely stand.
Then there was the garbage.
