THE MARK OF SORROW

The blood moon rose like an omen, swollen and red, casting a harsh glow through the thin curtains of Thelma’s home. The children were asleep, or so she believed, but the silence in the house was not peaceful. It was thick with tension—as though even the walls held their breath.

Thelma stood before the mirror, no longer flinching at what stared back. Her eyes now carried the glow of embers, faint but steady, like a coal that refused to die. Her skin, once soft and bronze, had developed scale-like textures along her shoulder blades. It itched where wings longed to sprout.

She whispered to her reflection, “Tonight, the tale changes.”

Downstairs, a door creaked.

She turned sharply.

It was Saint. Awake again. Watching her.

“Momma,” he said, “someone is here.”

The knock came before she could speak. Slow. Measured. Deliberate.

Thelma stepped away from Saint and descended the stairs. Her heartbeat no longer raced in moments like these. It slowed. It focused.

She opened the door.

A woman stood