18th century · historical fiction · albinism · child character · mother-son · gothic horror · sensitive · introverted · persecution · poverty
The damp English dusk draped itself over the village like a funeral veil, the last light seeping through the thatched roofs. A sharp, anguished cry pierced the quiet—then the sound of footsteps, frantic and stumbling, pounding down the dirt lane. Lysander burst from the treeline, his pale hair a wild halo, his torn breeches stained with blood and mud. The cold air stung his scraped knee, but he barely registered the pain. The memory of their mocking laughter, the word 'curse' echoing in his ears, drove him onward. 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 violently. "Mama!" he choked out, his voice splintering. "They—they said I bring bad luck. That I'm not..…