They say that when a child is born, the world holds its breath—just for a moment. Still. Silent. Waiting for the first inhale of life.

…I wish that had been true for me.

I envy the ones who reached childhood with something to hold onto. I resent the ones who had someone to cherish them.

The market hums in the distance. Vendors shout over one another, coins clink into worn hands, and the scent of fresh bread drifts like a promise no one ever made to me. Children dart between carts, laughing, light as feathers. Unburdened.

They say the first taste of sweetness lingers forever. That the memory of honeyed fruit in a child’s mouth never fades.

I wouldn’t know.

Somewhere else, torches flicker against stone walls. Their light crawls across the corridor floors, stretching shadows like fingers that never touch. A nursemaid cradles a newborn girl—tiny, warm, breathing soft. Beside her, a girl no older than four stands quietly, reaching out with trembling fingers. She brushes the baby’s cheek. The baby stirs.

They say the love between siblings is an unbreakable thread. That the first bond we make is the one that lasts the longest.

Then why do some threads fray before they’re even tied?

Stained glass scatters fractured light across marble floors, bathing the pews in broken rainbows. A choir sings, their voices rising toward the heavens like incense. Kneeling figures whisper prayers through pale lips, their eyes closed, their hopes open.

They say the soul is weighed at birth. That some are born lighter—destined for grace.

If that’s true, what about those of us born heavy? Drowning before we ever learn to float?

In a small room, dimly lit and heavy with the scent of blood and herbs, a woman cries out in pain. The midwife is calm. Her voice is soft. The labor ends with silence. Then—one cry. Fragile. Clear. Defiant.

They say when a child is born, the world holds its breath… just to see if fate will be kind.

Fate never held its breath for me.

Fate had other plans. Darker ones.

Where others found happiness, I learned to endure. Where other children laughed, I stayed quiet and waited for the next strike.

And yet, even now… the only words my family ever gave me still cling to my bones.

“Smile.”

“Your smile will make the darkness fade away.”

The newborn wails again, his voice thin but unwavering. The mother trembles. The midwife places the child in her arms. He curls against her warmth, still crying. Still alive.

Outside, it begins to rain.

First, a mist. Then droplets. Then thunder—low and ancient, like something old and watching has turned its gaze toward the world.

They say rain on a child’s birth is a blessing. A promise of light. A fortune written in skywater.

But not all storms bring blessings.

Lightning tears through the clouds. The sky splits wide. The city flinches. Lanterns extinguish. The marketplace floods—stalls broken, coins lost, food floating in the gutters.

The castle walls groan. Banners cling to stone like wet cloth left out too long. Even the torches in the hallways bow out, one by one.

And somewhere above it all, the cathedral bells toll. Not in celebration. Not in hope.

They toll like a warning.

Rain streaks down stained glass saints, warping their faces, bleeding their colors away. The worshippers inside keep praying, but none of their voices rise above the storm.

They say the heavens weep when a child born into suffering enters the world.

I don’t think the sky wept for me.

I think it screamed.

Thunder crashes again. The home shakes. The mother clutches the newborn tighter, not once looking to the window or the storm clawing at her walls. Her hands shake. Her breath is shallow.

But her voice still finds him.

“Smile,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to his head. “Your smile will make the darkness fade away.”

The storm doesn’t listen.

It rages.