She never liked the things other kids her age did.
As an infant, rattles didn't calm her—but stories did.
As a toddler, she preferred audiobooks over dolls, and when other children ran wild on playgrounds, she wandered the library shelves like a quiet shadow.
Stories were her world.
Legends, her lullabies.
As she grew older, she didn't just read folklore—she believed in it. While most children memorized science facts and history dates, she memorized ancient myths and forgotten tales. Things others laughed off as superstition felt truer to her than daylight.
And then there were her instincts—strange and sharp.
She sensed danger before it came. She knew what would happen before it did.
But instead of wonder, the world gave her fear.
People didn't see her as someone gifted.
They saw her as the cause.
Witch, they whispered.
They blamed her for accidents, for losses, for bad days.
No one sat with her.
No one called her name with kindness.
She had no friends.
Just herself.
Until she had the dream.
It came suddenly, one night, long after the whispers had settled into silence.
A forest—green, ancient, and still.
And in its heart, a door.
Not made of wood. Not of stone.
But of light.
A door that shimmered like memory, that pulsed like a heartbeat.
She didn't hear words. But she felt a calling.
A pull.
When she woke up, her hands trembled.
It wasn't just a dream. She was sure of it.
That morning, she searched every book she could find, desperate to know if such a thing had ever been written.
And there it was. Half a paragraph in an old, yellowing text:
A door of light appears once every hundred years in a forgotten forest. It opens for only one soul—one heart longing to return.
No date. No place. Just the legend.
It should've ended there. But for her, it began.
Because she knew exactly what—or who—she wanted to return to.
A boy.
They met when they were six.
He was the only one who never feared her.
While others stared or ran, he listened.
Maybe it wasn't just the stories—it was how she told them.
Maybe he saw something others didn't.
They sat in corners of the library, trading tales like secrets.
But stories can't protect you forever.
His parents found out.
They called her strange. Dangerous.
Told him to stay away.
And when he didn't, they moved.
Two years. That's all they had.
But to her, it was everything.
Now, at fourteen, she still hadn't forgotten.
In moments of sadness… in moments of wonder… she always thought of him.
And now, she thought of the door.