The night I was born, a decision was made.
I do not know who made it.
Only that it came from above everything else—law, crown, and reason.
The sky darkened without clouds. Fires inside sacred halls twisted unnaturally. Across the land, people felt an unease they could not explain, like the world itself had hesitated.
And somewhere beyond sight, something judged me.
\ This child must not continue.
No voice echoed.
No name was spoken.
Yet the order was absolute.
By morning, my existence had already become a problem.
Not because I was sick.
Not because I was malformed.
But because my future did not align with what had already been decided.
Those who served higher truths panicked. Those who maintained order demanded correction. A child who did not fit was dangerous—not for what he was, but for what he might become.
The solution was simple.
Erase the possibility.
Official records were written before I ever opened my eyes properly.
The child did not survive birth.
Ink dried. Seals were pressed. The world accepted the lie without question.
And the thing that had judged me turned away, satisfied that the mistake had been removed.
That should have been the end.
It wasn't.
I was carried through darkness by hands that shook violently. Wrapped in coarse cloth, hidden beneath cloaks, moved through corridors never meant for escape.
No one spoke.
Fear does not need words.
By dawn, borders had been crossed. Names were left behind. The past was buried under distance and silence.
I lived.
Not because I was chosen.
But because someone disobeyed.
My childhood was made of movement.
Different towns. Different names. Empty plates and cold nights. A woman who watched doors too closely and never spoke of before.
She was not my mother.
I knew that without being told.
But she was the reason I breathed.
Whenever bells rang or candles burned in places of worship, her hands tightened. Whenever strangers asked questions, we left.
I learned early that survival meant being forgettable.
On my seventh winter, the air changed.
Not suddenly—slowly. Like the pressure before a storm that never arrives.
My chest tightened. My head rang. The world felt heavy, as if something unseen had turned its attention back toward me.
Not angry.
Confused.
As if it had been certain I was gone.
I collapsed into the snow, gasping, heart pounding violently.
And in that moment, I understood something I had never been told:
Living itself was my crime.
I did not know who wanted me erased.
I did not know why my future was unacceptable.
But I knew this—
Whatever had decided I should not exist
had been wrong.
And someday, I would force it to face that mistake.