"Xanthe!"
There it was again—my mother's voice.
She had just given birth, yet I was the one she kept calling, as if all her exhaustion somehow belonged to me. I let out a quiet breath and grabbed the plate, dragging my feet as I walked toward her.
"The fried rice is ready," I said flatly.
She scanned me from head to toe, irritation clear on her face. I raised an eyebrow in response.
"Mom, seriously," I complained. "My exam is tomorrow, and there's not even a minute you don't call me."
"So now it's my fault?" she snapped.
I fell silent. She held out some money, and I already knew what it was for.
"Buy milk for your sibling," she said.
"Okay," I replied, unenthusiastic.
Mom lay back down on the couch while my stepfather sat at the dining table, drinking—as always. He never did anything else. He kept making children yet carried none of the responsibility that came with them.
I didn't realize I was glaring at him until he spoke.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked.
"I'm not," I replied quickly.
He laughed, a bitter sound fueled by alcohol.
"You know… you're unlucky," he said drunkenly. "Ever since you were a kid, we've felt something strange about you. Ever since you came out of your mother's womb, weird things started happening to us."
His eyes were half-closed as he spoke.
"Maybe… you shouldn't have been born."
It felt like icy water was poured over my entire body.
I couldn't speak.
Not because I had nothing to say—but because it felt like someone had wrapped their hand around my throat and squeezed.
I stood there silently, money clenched in my hand, while he stared at me as if his words meant nothing.
"Honestly," he added, laughing softly, "our lives would've been better without you."
Something twisted painfully in my chest.
This wasn't the first time I'd been hurt.
But every time… it still felt new.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, even though I didn't know what I was apologizing for.
He stood up unsteadily and pointed at me.
"You're always like this. Quiet. Like you're hiding something," he muttered. "Sometimes, you're scary. You're not normal."
I didn't look back.
I walked out of the house silently, the plastic bag in my hand rustling softly. The night air was cold against my skin—but it was nothing compared to the chill inside me.
As I walked down the dark street, my chest felt heavier with every step.
Why did it feel like I was used to being hurt?
Why did it feel like this wasn't the first time someone told me I shouldn't exist?
I stopped in the middle of the road.
It felt like someone hugged me from behind—cold, familiar.
I closed my eyes.
"It's okay…" a voice whispered in my mind.
"Don't listen to them."
Tears fell before I realized I was crying.
"Who are you?" I whispered into the emptiness.
"Why does it feel like you're the only one who doesn't push me away?"
There was no answer.
But in my chest, a dull ache lingered—like the memory of a hug I had lost long ago.
Somewhere I couldn't see, a man stood with his eyes closed, holding anger and grief he could no longer show.
"If they can't love you," he whispered into the darkness,
"then I will. Even if you don't know me."
"Sister Xanthe."
I turned around. Cyril, my younger sibling, looked at me with concern.
"Are you okay?" he asked softly. "Your head looks like it hurts."
I gave him a gentle smile. He was such a sweet child.
What was happening to me?
Was I losing my mind?
I picked up the milk cartons and walked to the counter, paying for them.
"Sister! Look!"
Before I could react, he ran off.
"Cyril! Wait!"
I grabbed the paper bag and chased after him—but before I could catch up, I bumped into someone.
A man wearing a cap and a black mask.
"I-I'm sorry," I said quickly, picking up the medicine that had fallen.
"It's okay."
His voice was calm. Low.
And strange.
He walked away immediately.
I frowned.
There was something about him—something I couldn't explain.
I shook my head. I really was losing it.
"Cyril! Wait!"
I let out a long breath once we finally got home, still holding Cyril's hand tightly.
"You better not do that again," I warned. "Or you're going to put yourself in a big trouble."
He laughed innocently, unaware of the heavy weight pressing against my chest.
"Sorry, older sis," he said quietly. "I thought I saw my brother."
I froze.
"Your brother?" I asked. I didn't know why my heartbeat suddenly quickened.
He shrugged. "I don't know. He was wearing black. He looked sad."
A chill ran down my spine.
I didn't ask any more questions. Maybe it was just a child's imagination—or maybe we were both slowly unraveling.
Inside the house, everything was quiet. Mom was asleep. My stepfather was still slumped at the table, a bottle in hand, as if the world no longer mattered.
I passed by silently.
In my room, I closed the door and leaned against it, my legs suddenly weak.
I took a deep breath.
But no matter how hard I tried to calm down, I couldn't forget the man from the convenience store.
His voice.
It felt like something tugged at a forgotten memory—someplace dark, cold, and bound by a promise.
I pressed a hand to my chest.
"Why…" I whispered. "Why does it feel like I left a part of myself somewhere?"
My head throbbed.
I sat on the bed and closed my eyes—and between the pain and the silence, an image surfaced.
I stepped back, noticing my bare feet on the floor. It wasn't cold, oddly familiar, like I'd been here before.
A shiver ran across my skin as a breeze brushed my cheek, carrying a scent I couldn't name.
"Xanthe…"
I spun around.
"Hello?" I called, but my voice was swallowed by the stillness.
In the distance, a shadow stood.
My heart raced. Why did it feel like it was already piercing my chest before even taking a step closer?
"You shouldn't be here," the voice murmured—"But… you've found your way again."
"Who are you?" I whispered, my voice trembling.
"Why do you seem familiar?"
He stepped forward. With each movement, my chest tightened, as though something long buried was being tugged back to the surface.
"Don't dwell on me… it will only hurt you," he said. He stopped a few paces away. "But I need you to know something."
He stared at me, and though I couldn't make out his features, the weight of his gaze pressed against me.
"You're not evil, Xanthe," he said softly. "You've never been unlucky… never truly wronged."
Suddenly, tears fell.
"H-How do you know my name?" I whispered, voice breaking.
He smiled, a smile so full of pain that it felt like a knife.
"Even when you forget…" he said, "…you're still the one I search for."
Slowly, he began to fade from my vision. But even as I tried to push him away, it was like invisible hands held me in place, pulling me closer.
"Wait! What's your name?!" I called out, panic rising. His gaze grew heavy with sadness, and I immediately regretted asking.
I blinked, and suddenly I was back in my own bed. Cyril wasn't beside me anymore; his mother probably woke him.
This is my life. I'm Xanthe Aurelisse, eighteen. My father is gone—I barely knew him—and my mother remarried, choosing a man who… wasn't kind.
I paused when something caught my eye: a necklace lying on my bedside table. A delicate star-shaped pendant, surrounded by diamonds and a single sapphire-blue crystal in the center.
"Is this Cyril's?" I murmured, frowning. But the thought seemed off—he's just a boy.
I picked up the necklace, examining it carefully. After finishing my morning routine, I slipped it around my neck and headed downstairs.
"Cyril!" I called.
The little boy turned, eyes lighting up. "Is that for you?"
I lifted the necklace. He froze for a moment, then gave a small, innocent smile, as if he had no idea of the significance.
"It's not mine, Sis."
I frowned.
"Not yours?" I pressed, gently holding the pendant in my palm. "Are you sure?"
He nodded firmly, pure and unassuming. "Yes. I never wear things like this. But it's pretty… for you, Sis."
My stomach twisted.
If it wasn't Cyril… then who?
A cold breeze brushed my neck, and my chest tightened with a sudden pang—like a memory struggling to emerge, then cut off abruptly.
"Where did you find this?" Cyril asked.
"In my bed," I whispered. "It was there when I woke up."
He paused, then tilted his head, thinking. When he looked up, his small smile returned.
"Maybe it's a gift," he said. "For you."
"A gift?" I repeated, trying to laugh. "From… who?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. But I think… it's important."
I didn't know why, but as I clasped the pendant around my neck, a faint, blue light flickered from the crystal. Almost invisible, almost ethereal. I closed my eyes for a moment—and then a voice whispered inside my mind:
Do not take this off.
I placed a hand over my chest, startled.
"Ate?" Cyril called, concerned.
"I'm okay," I said, though I wasn't sure. "Just… a little dizzy."
He nodded, eyes wide with worry, not fully convinced.
The morning passed, heavy with an unshakable weight. As I walked to school, it felt as if unseen eyes were following me—watching, waiting.
A shadow I didn't notice before stood at the edge of my vision, silently observing the pendant around my neck.
The sapphire star flickered faintly in the sunlight.
"You've found me again," a low voice whispered.
"And this time… I won't let you be lost alone."
I forced myself to keep walking, ignoring the tightening sensation in my chest. But with each step, the pendant seemed to pulse, beating almost like a heart.
Then, a sudden whistle of wind circled around me for no reason. I clutched the pendant, and in that instant, I felt it.
For a split second, a shadow passed in the corner of my vision. I turned—but there was nothing.
And yet, the whisper lingered in the air:
I am here.