Imagine A Happy Ending

The skies were a constant gray in the autumn of that year, like the heavens themselves were mourning. The sun, when it tried to pierce through the clouds, seemed weak and distant, casting only a pale, sickly light. The crops were failing. Fields that had once flourished with grain and fruit stood barren, the earth cracked and dry beneath the weight of hunger. The air felt thick with anticipation, as though nature itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to break.

The first to fall were the children. At first, it was subtle—pale faces, lethargic bodies. But within days, they began to disappear. Fever took them swiftly, and with each passing day, another family mourned the loss of a child. The village that once hummed with the laughter of the young had become a place of silent grief, where the echoes of lost innocence seemed to cling to the air like smoke.

I was seven years old when the famine truly hit, and I could feel it gnawing at the edges of everything. It wasn't just the food that was scarce; it was the kindness too. People locked their doors at the sight of strangers, turned away at the first sign of a desperate plea. The worst part was watching my mother, her once bright eyes dulled by worry, try to hold it all together. She would go to the market and return with nothing, her hands empty but for the invisible weight of her helplessness.

One afternoon, as the sun set behind the mountains, casting long shadows over the village, I saw my mother standing at the edge of the square, her gaze fixed on a basket of bread that had been left unattended. The bread was hard and stale, but to us, it was a prize. A sign of survival.

"Mother, please," I whispered, tugging at her sleeve. "We need that bread. You haven't eaten all day."

But she didn't answer. Her eyes were locked on the basket, and I could see the battle raging within her. She was proud, too proud to steal, but the hunger... it was worse than pride. It gnawed at her too. I knew it, I could feel it in my bones.

Before she could stop me, I reached out and grabbed the bread. It was warm still, though it was thin and brittle beneath my fingers. I slipped it into my shirt, my heart pounding in my chest. As I turned to leave, I heard the sound of footsteps behind me.

"Where do you think you're going, boy?"

It was one of the village men, a broad-shouldered man named Vlad, known for his harsh words and even harsher punishments. I froze, feeling my pulse quicken.

"I... I was just..." I stammered, my voice faltering.

He reached out and snatched the bread from my hands, his grip tightening around my wrist like a vice. "Stealing, are we?" His voice was low, cold, like a stone scraping against stone.

Before I could speak, he shoved me forward, dragging me to the center of the square. The villagers gathered around, their eyes cold, judgmental. My mother stood at the edge of the crowd, her face pale, her hands trembling. She wanted to speak, to defend me, but the words wouldn't come. She knew better than anyone that there was no defense for this.

I was thrown to the ground, the rough stones scraping my skin. The crowd murmured, their eyes fixated on me like vultures waiting for their prey to fall.

"You think you can just take whatever you want?" Vlad sneered. "There are consequences for stealing, boy."

He raised his hand, and the crowd grew silent. Then, with a brutal swing, the whip came down, striking across my back. The pain was sharp, immediate, and blinding. I cried out, but the sound was swallowed by the cold wind that swept through the square. With each lash, I felt my resolve crumbling, felt my spirit breaking. But there was one thing I couldn't break. My mother's gaze.

She stood there, frozen, watching me, her tears falling like rain in the silence of the crowd. I saw the pain in her eyes, the helplessness. She couldn't stop them. She couldn't stop any of this.

---

That night, I lay in bed, the scars of the day burning on my skin. The house was eerily quiet, save for the occasional creak of the wood as the wind howled outside. My father was silent, his face drawn and weary. My sister, Sora, was asleep beside me, her small body curled tightly under the covers.

My mother sat by the window, her gaze lost in the darkness outside. I could feel the weight of her sorrow, the heavy silence that had settled over our home. We were no longer the family we had once been. The joy was gone. The laughter was gone.

But then, as the night deepened, I heard something else. A voice. Soft at first, barely a whisper, but then clearer, as if it were calling from just outside the door.

"Kael..." the voice murmured, like a breath of wind on the edge of my ear. "Kael, come to me."

I sat up, my heart pounding in my chest. I looked toward the door, but there was nothing. Only the empty darkness.

The voice came again, this time stronger, more insistent.

"Kael, you are mine now."

---

The next evening, the elders gathered around the fire, as they did every night. The fire crackled in the center of the village square, casting long shadows that danced against the walls of the nearby houses. The old ones, those who had seen famine before, sat in a circle around the flames, their faces etched with the lines of age and experience.

"You've heard the stories, haven't you, boy?" Old Gheorghe asked me, his voice rough and low, like the rasp of a dying wind. He leaned forward, his eyes glinting in the firelight. "The stories of the Shadows of Famine?"

I nodded slowly, unsure of where he was going with this. The Shadows were a legend in our village, a story told to us as children to warn us against stealing from nature. They were the spirits of hunger, they said, roaming the forests, devouring those who dared to take more than they were given.

"They say the Shadows live in the heart of the forest," Gheorghe continued, his voice growing softer, more reverent. "And when famine strikes, they rise, hunting those who dare to steal. They take not just your body, but your very soul."

"The Shadows know when you've taken from the earth," said old Ana, her voice trembling. "And they never forget. They will find you, Kael. They will come for you."

I felt a chill run through me, deeper than the cold night air. The fire flickered, and for a moment, I thought I saw something moving in the darkness beyond the firelight. Something watching.

"They take what's theirs," Gheorghe muttered, almost to himself. "And you can't outrun them. No one ever has."

---

As the night wore on, the village was alive with stories of famine past, of survival and sacrifice. The elders spoke of the old days, when the Shadows had come, when people had disappeared without a trace, when the very land itself had seemed to turn against them.

"Remember," Gheorghe warned, "if you ever find yourself desperate, you must never, under any circumstances, go into the forest. The Shadows are always watching."

But as I lay in my bed that night, I couldn't shake the feeling that the Shadows were already here, closer than they had ever been before.

And somewhere, deep within the forest, I knew the darkness was waiting for me.