Before Elin was born into this world, her fate had already begun to take shape—quietly, mysteriously, and beyond human understanding.
Her parents had been married for several years, living an ordinary life filled with unspoken expectations. Elin's father was a simple man, religious and disciplined, while her mother carried a gentle heart weighed down by loneliness. When her mother became pregnant, happiness entered their home—but so did conflict.
Elin's father wished for a daughter. He had always imagined holding a little girl's hand, guiding her through life, protecting her from the cruelty of the world. Her mother, however, hoped for a son—someone strong, someone who could grow up to support the family. Their wishes were different, yet neither of them spoke too loudly about it.
One quiet afternoon, while Elin's mother rested inside the house, her father sat alone on the prayer mat. The room was silent, the air heavy with calm devotion. As he prayed, his heart focused only on God, asking for mercy, guidance, and a healthy child.
Suddenly, a voice echoed behind him.
"Your daughter will be born."
The words were clear—deep, unfamiliar, and close.
Elin's father froze.
His heartbeat quickened as fear crept into his chest. Slowly, he turned his head. The room was empty. No one stood behind him. No movement. No shadow.
He stood up immediately, scanning every corner of the room. The doors were locked. The windows were closed. There was no possible way anyone else could be there.
"It must be my imagination," he whispered to himself, forcing calm into his voice.
Still shaken, he chose silence. He did not tell Elin's mother. He convinced himself it was nothing more than exhaustion or distraction during prayer.
But fate had already chosen its path.
That night, Elin's father went outside for some work. The house grew quiet again. Elin's mother lay on the bed, one hand resting gently on her stomach. The baby inside her moved softly, as if responding to her thoughts.
Suddenly, she felt an odd chill.
She turned her head toward the veranda—and her breath caught in her throat.
A figure stood there.
It was a boy, dressed entirely in white.
He walked slowly, back and forth, without looking in any direction. His movements were calm, almost unreal. The dim light made it impossible to see his face clearly. The air around him felt cold, heavy, and unfamiliar.
Fear wrapped around Elin's mother like chains.
She wanted to scream—but her voice refused to come out.
She watched, frozen, as the boy continued walking, his footsteps soundless. Then, in a blink, he vanished.
Gone.
Elin's mother rushed to the veranda despite her fear. She searched every corner. There was no one there. No footprints. No sign that anyone had ever been present.
When Elin's father returned home later that night, she told him everything, her voice trembling.
For a moment, he felt fear too. The memory of the voice during prayer resurfaced in his mind. But he hid it well.
"You must be tired," he said gently. "Pregnancy causes strange visions. Don't think too much about it."
Though he tried to sound confident, unease settled deep within his heart.
From that night onwards, Elin's mother's sleep was never peaceful.
Every night, she dreamed of the same boy in white.
He stood in darkness, his face always blurred, always hidden. Yet his presence felt strong—protective, emotional, and deeply attached.
In the dreams, the boy looked directly at her and spoke the same words again and again.
"I love her.
I love your daughter very much."
The words echoed in her mind long after she woke up, leaving her confused and afraid.
Why did this boy speak of love?
Why her unborn child?
She tried to push the thoughts away, but the dreams returned every night, stronger than before.
One morning, Elin's mother woke up early, preparing herself for another exhausting day. As she stepped out of bed, something strange caught her eye.
The house was… clean.
Every dish was washed. The floor was swept. The clothes were folded neatly. Even the kitchen—usually untouched in the mornings—looked perfectly arranged.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Her husband had not been home that morning.
Then who had done all this?
Her hands began to shake.
A cold realisation crossed her mind—
Was someone else living in this house?
Fear took over her thoughts.
She sat down slowly, one hand gripping her stomach.
"Is someone… watching my child?" she whispered.
A terrifying thought struck her—
Had a jinn… or some unseen being… become attached to her unborn baby?
She prayed silently, tears falling as she begged God for protection.
From the day Elin's mother began to notice the strange changes around her, her heart was never at ease again. Though the doctor said everything was normal, she felt an invisible weight pressing on her chest every night. It was as if someone unseen was constantly watching over her unborn child.
The dreams did not stop.
Every night, without exception, the same boy dressed in white appeared. Sometimes he stood at the edge of the bed, sometimes near the window where moonlight entered softly. His face was always unclear, hidden by shadows, but his presence felt heavy—neither entirely evil nor completely pure.
One night, Elin's mother gathered courage and spoke in her dream.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice trembling.
The boy did not smile. He simply replied, his voice echoing softly,
"I protect her now and always."
Those words made her wake up screaming.
After that night, unusual things began to happen more frequently. The doors would open by themselves, though there was no wind. A faint fragrance—neither floral nor familiar—often filled the room, especially around midnight. Sometimes, Elin's mother felt a gentle hand resting on her belly, warm and protective, as if someone was calming the unborn child inside.
Strangely, whenever she felt afraid, the baby inside her womb stopped moving. But when she felt calm, when the moonlight shone bright, Elin moved gently—as if responding to someone else's presence.
Elin's father noticed the changes too.
One evening, as he sat alone in the prayer room, he felt an intense chill run through his spine. The lamp flickered violently, though the electricity was stable. He heard soft footsteps behind him. Turning around, he saw no one—but on the wall, a shadow moved independently, taller than any human.
That night, he dreamt of the same boy.
The boy stood before him, eyes finally visible—deep, ancient, and sorrowful.
"Do not harm her," the boy said.
"I will never harm her," Elin's father replied, shaken.
"She belongs to this world… but she is also tied to mine."
When he woke up, his body was drenched in sweat. He realised then—this was no illusion, no imagination. Something beyond human understanding was involved with his unborn daughter.
From that day, Elin's father became overly protective. He recited prayers more often, avoided leaving his wife alone at night, and locked every door carefully. But no lock could stop what was never meant to enter through doors.
One night, during a heavy storm, the electricity went out completely. Thunder roared as Elin's mother lay awake, holding her belly tightly. Suddenly, the room felt unnaturally silent—as if even the storm had paused.
A soft glow appeared near the corner of the room.
The boy in white stood there again.
This time, he came closer than ever before. Elin's mother wanted to scream, but her voice failed her. Her body felt frozen.
"Do not fear," the boy said calmly.
"I will not harm you."
He placed his hand near her belly but did not touch it.
"She hears me," he whispered.
"She knows me."
Tears rolled down Elin's mother's face.
"Why, my child?" she cried softly. "Why us?"
The boy looked away, pain flickering through his unreadable expression.
"Because she was chosen long before her soul entered this body."
With that, he vanished—leaving behind a warmth that lingered far too long.
From then on, Elin's mother's health strangely improved. The fear remained, but her body felt stronger. The baby grew healthier than expected. Doctors were surprised at how stable everything was, despite the stress.
But peace never lasted long.
One dawn, Elin's mother woke to whispers echoing through the house. Not one voice—many. Soft, overlapping, speaking in a language she did not understand. She held her belly tightly, feeling Elin move violently inside, as if reacting to something unseen.
Suddenly, one clear voice cut through the whispers.
"She is under my protection."
The whispers stopped instantly.
That morning, strange marks appeared on the walls—faint symbols that disappeared by noon. Elin's father noticed claw-like scratches on the outer door, as if something had tried to enter but failed.
Fear consumed them both.
Yet somewhere deep within Elin's mother's heart, a disturbing realisation formed—whatever was connected to her unborn child was not entirely cruel. It was possessive, ancient, and dangerously devoted.
As the days passed, the boy in white appeared less in dreams, but his presence never fully faded. Sometimes Elin's mother felt him standing near her during silent nights. Sometimes she heard a soft hum, as if someone was singing to the child inside her.
And each time Elin moved in response.
The night before Elin's birth, the boy appeared one last time.
He stood by the window, moonlight finally revealing part of his face—beautiful, otherworldly, and painfully lonely.
"She will forget me," he whispered, almost to himself.
"But I will never forget her."
With that, he disappeared forever from her dreams.
That night, Elin was born.
And with her birth, the unseen bond between worlds had already been sealed.
As Elin took her first breath, a sudden calm spread across the house. The strange heaviness that had lingered for months vanished silently. Outside, the storm clouds slowly parted, allowing moonlight to fall gently upon the newborn's face. Elin's tiny fingers curled instinctively, as if grasping something unseen. For a brief moment, Elin's mother felt a familiar warmth beside her—protective, watchful, and bittersweet. Somewhere beyond the human world, unseen eyes remained fixed upon the child. Though Elin had entered the world as an ordinary human, her destiny had already been intertwined with something far older, darker, and deeply devoted—waiting patiently for the day she would remember.
["Add to library if you want to know Elin's fate…"]