On this quiet evening, the breeze drifted through the broken windows, brushing Rosalinda’s skin like a whisper from the gods. It calmed her nerves—or else, what would?

Certainly not her mother, who sat in the parlour weeping and wallowing in her own self-inflicted guilt.

Rosalinda didn’t need anyone to tell her. She knew. If her mother hadn’t stormed out in anger that night, maybe—just maybe—the villagers wouldn’t be gathered in their home now, offering condolences.

That morning, when the news of her father’s death arrived, the woman she called mother had sunk into the worn-out couch across from her and looked anything but sad.

Rosalinda had a nagging feeling. The woman wasn’t grieving. In fact, she might have expected it.

“Your father is dead,” her mother muttered after a long silence.

Rosalinda nodded slowly. “He wasn’t even my father,” she said, her lips curling.

She wouldn’t mourn the man who was supposed to protect her—a man who had become her misfortune, her abuser.

“Good,” the woman replied, smiling with a cruel twist.

Rosalinda would have rolled her eyes if she didn’t know what her mother was capable of.

“…That way, you can take the blame for his death, can you not?”

“What?” Rosalinda’s eyes snapped up to meet her mother’s.

The woman held her gaze. “I am his wife. Let it not be known that I drove him to his death.”

Rosalinda shifted in her seat. Her mother was cruel, yes—but this was a new depth.

“What reason would I have to kill him?” she asked, frowning.

The woman grinned. “Oh, I have just the right alibi. We’ll say he beat you after drinking himself into a stupor every day. And today, you simply couldn’t take it anymore.”

Rosalinda held in a gasp. She had learned not to cry. Tears were weakness, and weakness was dangerous.

“It is, after all, the bitter truth, is it not?” her mother asked.

Rosalinda swallowed. “The chief might order my death,” she whispered.

Her mother leaned back, satisfied. “I would not allow that. Leave the rest to me, my child.”

Rosalinda sighed softly. It was decided. She would be the lamb of sacrifice. In this village, every death demanded a reason. She would be that reason.

“Why?” she whispered. “Why did you kill him?”

Her mother threw her head back and laughed—empty, bitter.

“Did you forget? Have you already forgotten him?” she snapped.

Rosalinda stiffened. Her mother’s words hung in the air like smoke.

“He would be disappointed in you, Rosa. You were his favorite.”

Rosalinda glared, her face expressionless. “Whose fault was his death, Mother?”

“Don’t you dare—” the woman began.

“The truth is harsh, isn’t it?” Rosalinda cut in. “If you hadn’t married that bastard, we wouldn’t be here.”

“Are you done?” her mother asked, folding her arms with a glower.

Rosalinda stood, dragging the weak cushion with her.

“Don’t you ever use him to blackmail me. You have no right. I begged you. I pleaded. And still—you married him!” she yelled.

The conversation was over. She turned and left the room.

Her mother had no excuse. When her father died, they were left with nothing. The next of kin came the next day and took what little remained.

They did nothing.

And when hunger clawed at them, Rosalinda went out and worked as a handmaid to survive.

Then one morning, her mother introduced a new man as their father—as if he could be replaced.

After her brother’s death, the villagers began to whisper: _“One of them is cursed. May the gods keep their misfortune from us.”_

Rosalinda had little will to live. Nothing mattered.

Not now. Not ever.