III. The Girl Who Gave Until There Was Nothing Left

She stumbled into camp through the downpour, a small, rain-soaked silhouette dragging two torn bags behind her. Her boots made soft sucking sounds in the mud. Every step seemed like a struggle. The others saw her and gathered fast, circling like vultures.

She smiled faintly, though her lips were turning pale blue from the cold. Her threadbare black dress clung to her thin figure, the fabric nearly transparent in the rain. She handed out the dented cans and stale bread from her bags until they were empty. The derelicts took everything from her, not one of them offering thanks in return for her gifts.

As they ate around the trash fire, she stood still, dripping and trembling. They called her their little saint, but not in an affectionate way. They didn’t know her real name. She never offered it. They never asked.

A man reached out and touched her hair. He muttered that he’d make sure she blessed him later. She just looked away and stayed quiet.

This one kept nothing for herself. Not the food, not her body, not even her name. She was everything they wanted her to be. Provider. Nurturer. A temporary relief against the loneliness of their meaningless existence.

But there was no virtue in any of it. No moral compass that told her to help these people because it was the “right” thing to do. To her, every offering was a transaction, every gesture a plea to the universe to absolve her of the things she believed she’d done wrong.

Guilt has a way of dressing itself up as selflessness, and most never learn the difference.

When a drunk stumbled in from the road, he saw the others eating and asked where his share was. No one spoke. His face twisted, red and wild. He turned on her, accusing her of hiding something. She shook her head. The rain streaked down her face, indistinguishable from her tears.

He struck her. Hard. Then again. And again. She finally fell into the mud with a sound that was swallowed by the rain. The others looked away. Someone laughed. The drunk sat down and ate from another man’s can. The fire sputtered, and the sound of distant thunder rolled closer.

She didn’t move. Just lay there, shivering slightly from the cold and her own fear. And in the faint light, I could see that her eyes held a little less light than before.

Disgust isn’t an emotion I entertain often, but it came easily here. The descendant of an Enlightened One, reduced to this. The Sha’harai elders would say all things serve their purpose in the great balance. I wonder if this counted.

I made no note of my thoughts in the report back to them. I wrote only what mattered: coordinates, confirmation, condition. And then I left.

The search continues.

M.

Up Next: The Girl Who Dreamed of Dragons