In a small, forgotten town cloaked in mist, there lived a peculiar little girl named Mara. She always wore a black suit, her pale hands poking out like porcelain against the dark fabric. Wherever she went, shadows seemed to follow her, and the air grew heavy, like the world itself held its breath.
Mara was only ten years old, but she carried a terrible secret: she had the power of death. A single touch could wilt flowers, age stone, or silence a beating heart.
Because of this, Mara lived a solitary life, her days spent wandering the overgrown fields and abandoned alleys of her quiet town. The townsfolk whispered tales about her, calling her “The Reaper’s Child.” Children ran from her, and adults avoided her gaze.
But Mara didn’t care. Or so she told herself.
One day, while exploring the crumbling remains of an old church, Mara found a stray kitten trapped under a fallen beam. It mewed softly, its tiny body trembling. For a moment, Mara hesitated. She couldn’t touch it—not without hurting it.
Instead, she whispered, “Don’t be scared. I’ll help you.”
Using a stick, she carefully lifted the beam just enough for the kitten to crawl out. It stared up at her with wide, green eyes, then nuzzled her boot.
Mara smiled, a rare and fleeting thing.
From that day on, the kitten—whom she named Shade—became her constant companion. Shade didn’t fear her touch, and Mara was careful, only petting it with the edge of her sleeve. For the first time, she felt less alone.
But peace was fleeting in Mara’s world.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Mara heard cries from the town square. She rushed over to find a boy, no older than twelve, lying on the cobblestone street, his breaths shallow and labored. A group of villagers stood around him, their faces pale with fear.
“He’s dying,” someone muttered.
Mara’s heart raced. She knew what she had to do, but fear clutched her. If she used her power, they would hate her even more.
But then she saw the boy’s eyes, filled with pain and silent pleas.
“I can help,” Mara said, stepping forward.
The crowd parted, murmuring in hushed tones.
Kneeling beside the boy, Mara placed her hand on his chest. She closed her eyes, focusing not on taking life, but on drawing away the sickness that clung to him like a shadow.
When she pulled her hand back, the boy gasped, his cheeks flushed with color once more.
The crowd stared in stunned silence. Then, slowly, the boy’s mother dropped to her knees, tears streaming down her face. “Thank you,” she whispered.
From that day on, Mara’s life changed. The townsfolk no longer saw her as a curse but as a strange and fragile miracle.
Yet Mara knew the truth: her power was still dangerous, still something to be feared. But now, she also knew it could be used to protect, to heal, and to bring light where there had only been darkness.
And so, the girl in the black suit continued her quiet wanderings, not as a shadow of death, but as a quiet guardian, walking the fine line between life and the void.