Imagine A Happy Ending

The year was 1700. I was born in a village that no longer exists on any map. It was a place stolen from time, cradled by mountains that seemed to touch the heavens and encircled by a lake so clear it mirrored the stars. The villagers called it the Lake of Mirrors, believing it was sacred—a bridge between the world of the living and the realm of spirits.

They also believed in curses.

The storm came first, tearing through the valley like a beast unleashed. Lightning clawed at the sky, and thunder growled over the mountains. And in the middle of that chaos, I entered this world, screaming against the storm as if I were trying to drown it out.

I don't remember, of course. But my mother told me about it often. She said I was born into the kind of night people feared, a night that carried omens.

"It's a sign," the midwife said that night. Her name was Baba Draga, and she was older than anyone could guess, her voice as dry as the wind through brittle leaves. She held me up like I was something diseased. "A boy born in a storm brings only ruin. You should give him back to the spirits before it's too late."

My mother, Leora, was exhausted, her face pale and her hair damp with sweat. But her grip on me was iron as she pulled me close. "He's my son. My firstborn. I don't care about your signs, Draga."

Baba Draga leaned in close, her shadow stretching over us in the flickering candlelight. "Leora, listen to me. Boys like this... they're marked. The spirits don't give their blessings lightly. You have a choice. Leave him to the lake, and you might save yourselves."

"I won't do it," my mother said, her voice sharp despite the pain in it. "He's mine. He's ours." She turned to my father, Vasile, who had been pacing the room like a caged wolf. "Tell her, Vasile. Tell her Kael belongs here."

Vasile hesitated. He wasn't a cruel man, but he had grown up with the same superstitions as the rest of the village. Still, he knelt beside my mother and touched her face gently. "We'll keep him. Whatever happens, we'll face it together. He'll have a name worthy of this family."

"Kael Varlan," my mother whispered, tears in her eyes. "That's his name. And he will be strong, stronger than anyone who doubts him."

Baba Draga sighed, the sound like wind through a graveyard. "Then you have chosen. But you'll regret it. Mark my words—you'll regret it."

---

In our village, tradition was everything. Every birth, every death, every harvest—it all revolved around the spirits. And when someone was born during a storm, the Square of Silence became their first home.

The Square was unlike any place I've ever seen. It was a circle of standing stones carved with runes no one could read, older than the village itself. People said it was where the spirits first walked the earth, where the lake was blessed with its mirror-like power.

That night, my parents carried me there, wrapped in wool to shield me from the rain. Baba Draga led the way, her hunched form somehow steady against the storm. My father carried a basket filled with offerings: bread, salt, and a small knife.

"Why the knife?" my father had asked earlier.

Baba Draga hadn't even turned to look at him. "Because the spirits require blood, Vasile. Don't be a fool. A child born in a storm doesn't come cheap."

When we reached the Square, the air was still, as if the storm itself dared not intrude. The stones seemed to hum with an energy I can't describe, and the moon, hidden all night, broke through the clouds to bathe the circle in silver light.

Baba Draga placed me in the center of the stones. She muttered something in a language no one understood, her voice low and sharp, like a blade cutting through the silence. Then she turned to my father.

"Your blood, Vasile. Just a drop. Show the spirits your devotion."

My father hesitated. He wasn't a coward, but something about that place, that moment, seemed to sap the strength from him. My mother grabbed the knife from the basket and held out her hand.

"If you won't do it, I will."

Vasile stopped her. "No. I'll do it." He pricked his finger, letting a single drop fall onto the stone beside me. The moment the blood hit, the wind howled through the stones like a living thing, and the moonlight grew brighter. Baba Draga nodded.

"The spirits have accepted him," she said. "For now."

---

Growing up, I could feel their eyes on me. The villagers. They tried to hide it, but I wasn't blind. The children avoided me like I carried a sickness, and the adults whispered behind their hands.

"He's the storm child," they said. "The cursed one."

My father told me to ignore them, but how could I? Their fear clung to me like a second skin. My only solace was my family. My mother, always fierce in her love for me. My father, protective in his quiet way. And my sister, Ana, who never saw the curse they all talked about. To her, I was just her brother.

But even at home, there were secrets. I could feel it in the way my parents looked at each other when they thought I wasn't watching. In the way Baba Draga's warnings still echoed in their silences.

And in the dreams.

I didn't tell anyone about the dreams. They started when I was six, always the same. The lake, black as the void, and a voice calling my name. Soft at first, then louder, until it was screaming. "Kael!"

I would wake up shaking, my heart pounding, but I could never remember what came after the voice.

One night, I asked my mother about the lake. "Why do they call it the Lake of Mirrors?"

She hesitated, her hands stilling over the bread dough she was kneading. "Because it shows you the truth," she said finally. "Not just your reflection, but what lies beneath. That's why we stay away from it at night."

"What lies beneath?"

Her answer was a long time coming. "Nothing you need to know. Not yet."

But her eyes betrayed her fear. And even then, I knew that the lake, the spirits, and the storm—they weren't done with me. Not yet.