The shortest curse in this world, is a name
Moon, Mountain, Willow, Road
A name binds the fundamental state of things
All you need is a name and you can even bind what's invisible to the eye with a curse
A man is smitten with a woman
A woman is smitten with a man
We bind that feeling and give it a name "LOVE"
And thus a curse is born
.......
The alarm buzzed at 7:30 a.m.
Greece groaned softly, one arm flung over her face as the sound clawed at the quiet of her room.
She let it ring for a few seconds before her hand found the phone and silenced it.
Another day, she thought. Same routine. Same quiet.
She lay still for a while, staring at the ceiling. The morning light slanted through the half-open blinds, painting pale lines across her face and the unmade sheets. Her apartment was small—neat, almost too neat. It had the kind of silence that felt heavy, not peaceful.
Finally, she sat up, brushed a strand of hair from her eyes, and swung her legs off the bed. The floor was cold beneath her feet.
Bathroom. Toothbrush. Warm water on her face. A slow blink into the mirror.
The same brown eyes. The same tired skin. The same girl who always tried not to feel invisible.
She tied her hair back and moved to the kitchen. The air smelled faintly of old coffee beans and cinnamon.
She filled the kettle, pressed the switch, and reached for her favorite mug—a chipped, cream-colored one with a fading blue cat painted on the side.
"Milo," she called softly, shaking the small bowl near the sink.
A faint meow answered from the corner. A grey cat padded out, tail swaying lazily.
"Breakfast," she said.
She poured kibble into the bowl and smiled when Milo brushed against her leg before crouching to eat. Then she poured her coffee, took one sip, and set the mug back on the counter.
It was strong. Bitter. Just how she liked it.
A glance at the clock.
7:15.
She sighed, grabbed her tote bag, slung it over her shoulder, and whispered to the cat,
"Don't destroy the place."
…..
The streets were already awake when she stepped out. Vendors were setting up their stalls; buses honked in the distance. The city felt alive in a way Greece never quite did.
She walked with her head down, hands tucked into her jacket pockets.
A young couple passed her, laughing about something trivial.
A mother adjusted her child's backpack before the school bus arrived.
Greece looked for a second too long — not with envy, not exactly. Just... something quieter.
A hollow in the chest that ached and then disappeared.
She'd been dropped off as an orphan at Mrs. Evans' Home. No surname, no record. Even the person who left me wasn't seen.
All she had was a slip of paper crumpled in my tiny hand. It said only one thing: "Greece." Whether it was her birth place or name, no one knew and since that was the only thing she came with, they just started calling her Greece. After all that was all they knew about her.
Some days I wonder if anyone would notice if I didn't show up tomorrow, she thought. Maybe Jim would. Maybe not.
...
The café bell jingled softly when she pushed open the door.
Benpath Café — her second home, or maybe just the place she spent most of her hours pretending to be fine.
"Morning, Greece," Jim called from behind the counter, already wearing his stained apron and his forever-kind grin.
"Morning," she said, tying her own apron, her voice barely above the hum of the espresso machine.
The day rolled forward the same way every other did:
The hiss of steam.
The murmur of customers.
The rhythmic clink of mugs and spoons.
"Greece, table six wants another latte,"
"Got it."
"Customer's waiting on the croissant order!"
"On it."
She smiled when she had to. Listened when she needed to.
And when no one was watching, she just breathed — quiet and distant.
Hours later, as dusk turned the windows gold, she untied her apron and hung it by the hook.
"Jim, I'm done for the day."
"Yeah, yeah, get some rest, kid."
"You too."
She smiled faintly and stepped out into the evening.
By the time she reached home, the streetlights had flickered on. She unlocked her door, tossed her bag aside, and let the silence of her apartment swallow her again.
Milo meowed softly, winding between her legs.
"Hey," she murmured, scratching his head.
She took a quick shower, ate something simple — toast and eggs — then poured fresh water for Milo. Her life was a loop, and she'd learned to move inside it without complaint.
When she finally lay down in bed, the city's hum drifted through her window.
Her last thought before sleep was a quiet one:
At least today wasn't worse than yesterday.