YEARS AGO. “No, Mama,” the little girl wails, clinging to her mother. Her tiny fists knot into the folds of her mother's cloak, her voice trembling with terror. “I don't want to stay here.” The woman's heart shatters, but she swallows the sob clawing its way up her throat. She crouches low, pressing her forehead to Freya’s. “You must, my love,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “They’ll find you if you stay with me.” The girl wonders if the “they” has to do with the strange man that got hurt in the fire she accidentally caused when she scrambled from under the bed and knocked over a candle. She shakes her head violently, tears streaking down her chubby cheeks. “I’ll be quiet, Mama! I’ll hide!” Her mother stiffens, her heart squeezing painfully. Then with trembling hands, she pries Freya's hands from her cloak. “Listen to me, Freya,” She tries to keep her voice steady. “You were never meant to be born. You will be safe here.” She was never meant to be born. The words soun
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