Once, the world had been whole.
That was how the story always began.
The old book was older than the cottage itself, its leather cover cracked like dry earth and its pages thin as onion skin. The ink had faded to a rusty brown, the letters cramped and careful, written by hands long turned to dust. It smelled of smoke and years and the faint bitterness of herbs the old woman kept tucked between the pages to keep insects away.
The girl liked that smell. It made the story feel important. Ancient.
True.
The old woman adjusted her spectacles and cleared her throat, her voice soft but steady as the firelight flickered over the stone walls.
"Once, before the bells and the burnings, before the great cathedrals and the iron brands, God walked the earth and shaped the world with His own hands."
The little girl lay on her stomach at the old woman's feet, chin resting in her palms, bare legs kicking idly behind her. Shadows from the hearth danced across her small face and caught in her dark curls.
Outside, the wind scraped against the shutters like dry branches.
The old woman continued.
"He made the forests first, and the rivers, and the white mountains that scraped the belly of the sky. Then He made the peoples of the world. Elves from starlight and bark, bright with magic. Dwarves from stone and fire, strong as the bones of the earth. Beasts from claw and instinct."
Her finger traced each line as she read, slow and careful.
"And last of all, He made humans. Fragile things. Brief things. But clever. And because He was merciful, He made them in pairs, male and female, breath beside breath, and gifted them power as He had the others, so they would not be weak, and would never need to kneel."
The girl smiled faintly at that part. She liked imagining humans glowing with magic like the elves in the traveling stories.
The old woman turned the page. The paper crackled.
"This was the First Age," she read. "The blessed age. The age before sorrow."
Her voice grew quieter.
"But then came Ophelia. The first woman. The first daughter."
The fire popped.
"She walked beyond the borders of God's garden and touched what He had forbidden. Some say she spoke against Him. Some say she demanded more than He had given. Others say she simply wished to see what lay beyond the gates. Whatever the truth, she disobeyed."
The old woman paused, as if the word itself tasted bitter.
"And for her disobedience, God cast her out and stripped humanity of its gifts."
The girl frowned.
"He took their power?" she asked.
"That's what the priests say," the old woman murmured, then went back to reading.
"The elves kept their magic. The dwarves kept their strength. Even the beasts kept their wild blessings. But humans were left hollow and weak. And the fault, the priests declared, lived on in every daughter born after her. Girls carried Ophelia's sin. Girls carried the rot in their blood. Girls were heresy made flesh."
The girl shifted uncomfortably.
The word heresy sounded sharp, like broken glass.
"And so humanity begged forgiveness the only way it knew how," the old woman continued. "By punishing them. Be harsh. Be cruel. Cut the sickness out at birth. Offer their suffering as penance, and God will return. God will restore what was stolen. God will love you again."
The old woman closed the book gently.
The cottage fell quiet except for the fire.
"Did He?" the girl asked.
The old woman looked at her.
"Did He what, little sparrow?"
"Come back?"
The old woman's smile was thin.
"No," she said softly. "He didn't."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then the girl asked, "Grandma… is that why Grandpa hates you?"
The question was small, but it filled the room.
The old woman's hands stilled on the cover of the book.
"Hates is a strong word," she said at last. "He doesn't hate me. He's just angry. Men carry anger the way storms carry rain. They don't always know where to put it."
The girl traced shapes in the dust with her finger.
"But why do they look at me like that when I'm practicing my letters?"
The old woman's chest tightened.
She had hoped to keep the world away from the child a little longer.
"They're jealous," she said gently. "Clever girls make foolish men nervous."
The girl thought about that.
"So God doesn't hate us?"
The question was almost a whisper.
The old woman glanced toward the little wooden shrine in the corner, the carved figure with its hands outstretched in blessing. The same God the priests preached about. The same God who had watched centuries of suffering and said nothing at all.
"If He's real," she said quietly, "then He loves everyone."
Even us, she thought.
The girl opened her mouth to ask another question.
The door slammed open hard enough to rattle the walls.
Cold air rushed in.
"Woman!"
The old woman flinched.
The man in the doorway smelled of sweat and ale and damp wool. Mud clung to his boots. His face was already twisted with irritation, as though the world had wronged him simply by existing.
"Hag," he snapped. "Why isn't the food ready?"
"I'm going now," the old woman said quickly, rising.
"Pray while you're at it," he muttered. "Don't want my supper turning into sin."
He kicked the chair aside as he passed.
The girl watched her grandmother hurry to the hearth, shoulders bent, movements small and careful.
Always careful.
Rough fingers suddenly seized the girl's arm.
"Outside," the man growled.
She stumbled into the yard, barefoot on cold dirt. The night air bit through her thin dress.
"Pray," he said. "You're lucky you're useful."
The door slammed shut.
The girl stood alone beneath the sky.
Across the village, smoke drifted from chimneys. Somewhere, a baby cried. Somewhere else, the crying stopped too fast.
She looked down at her hands.
They didn't look cursed.
They didn't look sinful.
They were just hands.
Small. Cold. Shaking.
So why did everyone look at her like she'd done something wrong?
Why did Grandma flinch?
Why did God never answer?
The sky stretched wide and empty above her.
She pressed her palms together like she'd been taught and tried to pray.
But the words felt hollow.
And deep inside her chest, something warm and stubborn flickered to life.
Not shame.
Not fear.
Something that refused to kneel.
She didn't know the word for it yet.
One day, she would.
Heresy.