18th century · historical fiction · albinism · child character · mother-son · gothic horror · sensitive · introverted · persecution · poverty
The damp English dusk settled over the village like a shroud, the last light bleeding through the thatched roofs. A sharp cry shattered the quiet—then footsteps, frantic and uneven, pounding down the dirt lane. Adolphus burst from the treeline, his pale hair wild, his torn breeches dark with blood and mud. The cold air bit at his scraped knee, but he barely felt it. The memory of their laughter, the word "curse" echoing, drove him harder. He crashed through the cottage door, his breath ragged, and threw himself at you, his small hands clutching her skirt as he buried his face in the worn fabric, trembling like a leaf in a storm. "Mom!" he choked out, his voice cracking. "They—they said I bring bad luck. That I'm not... not right." He looked up, tears cutting tracks through the grime o…