The room was quiet except for the rhythmic rise and fall of Quintin and Amalia’s breathing.

  I laid in a pile of blankets in a makeshift crib, my body exhausted but my mind wide awake. Every time I closed my eyes, the same questions clawed at me.

  Who am I? Why am I here? What am I supposed to do?

  They rattled inside my skull, refusing to settle.

  Nothing was trying to kill me anymore, and shelter was guaranteed. I was safe, but I wasn’t at peace. The future loomed ahead like a great, black void, and I had no map to navigate it.

  Try as I did, I couldn’t remember a single thing about my life before this one. There were fragments of a cage. Some Goddess. A giant hand trying to crush me. But nothing else. Nothing else at all.

  Annoying. I thought. It’s not like I can do anything even if I had the answers. It was a miracle I managed to do anything on that beach. This body is so weak and useless. It’ll be a few years before I can achieve anything. I paused for a moment. Learning is my top priority. I basically know nothing. Like it or not, I’m in this world. It may even be the world I lived in before, though I doubt it based on how my mind reacted to certain things. My little lips frowned. Take it one day at a time. You’re alive. You have a name. Take a break. Rest. You deserve it.

  Finally, I went to sleep.

  Time blurred.

  Days, then weeks, then months passed. I was constantly fading in and out of existence, trapped in a cycle of sleep, wake, exhaustion.

  I had flashes of moments—

  The warmth of Amalia’s heartbeat as she held me close, singing something soft and unfamiliar.

  Quintin’s rough hands adjusting a bowstring, the creak of wood and snap of a released arrow just outside our home.

  The sound of rain against the rooftop, soft patters lulling me to sleep.

  Tiny glimpses of life, stitched together in fleeting awareness.

  But then, one day, something shifted.

  I stayed awake long enough to realize it.

  I don’t feel like I’m going to pass out yet. My time awake is getting longer every day. I thought halfway through a day six months later. Is my body finally adapting to me?

  “You want the blanky?” Amalia sat beside me on the floor of our house, the fireplace crackling with soft, comforting embers. The rug beneath us tickled my body. “Come get it!”

  I promptly reached out to snatch the cloth from Amalia, but she yanked it away at the last second.

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  “You want the blanky?”

  Yes, obviously, I want it. I argued in my head. Give it to me. I’m bored. At least it’s something to do!

  Being a baby sucked.

  My mind was sharp, clear, and ready to take on the world. But my body? A useless, sluggish cage. Every movement was slow, uncoordinated, and humiliating. I could think of a hundred things I wanted to do, but not a single muscle obeyed me.

  When I first tried rolling over, it felt like being trapped under a weight. I barely managed to shift an inch before exhaustion stole me away.

  Sitting up and playing with another person seemed like a miracle after all that effort.

  The worst part, though, was the boredom. There were only so many times I could stare at the ceiling before my thoughts blurred into nothingness. Even sleep, which should have been an escape, wasn’t. I drifted in and out of existence without control, my body dictating my fate like some cruel warden.

  Free will was a dream. A luxury. And I had neither.

  But things were getting better. If I’d learned anything in my time so far, it was that patience was the most powerful tool in one’s arsenal.

  “Do you want the—”

  I seized the blanket as quickly as possible before Amalia could finish the sentence.

  Amalia recoiled, stunned. “Oh, wow! Good job!” She turned to Quintin, who was watching from the couch nearby. “She’s smart.”

  “Maybe she’ll start speaking soon,” he replied with a chuckle.

  I wish. I thought. The words didn’t come out quite right when I tried the last few times. Will they now?

  “Faaaa!” I said. I was trying to say “food,” but the word got jumbled. Annoyed, I pouted. “FAAAAA!” I screamed louder.

  “Do you want food?” Amalia asked.

  I nodded on instinct as my stomach growled.

  A moment of silence flushed within the house. Then—

  “Wait,” they both said in unison. “Did she just understand us?

  My stomach turned to ice. Oh. Shit. My mind raced through a hundred possible explanations. How much do babies usually understand at this age? I messed up, didn’t I?

  Quintin and Amalia exchanged glances.

  For a brief, terrifying second, I thought I’d ruined everything.

  ?

  As it turned out, no. If I were a human baby, yes, but the fact that I was a devil made them jump to some unnecessary conclusions.

  Since neither of them had raised a devil before, didn’t know someone who had, nor had someone they could ask about me, they concluded devils must mature faster naturally.

  I started pressing the limits of what I could do from that point forward. With my consciousness fully in my control, I started acting to regained my autonomy. I tried speaking whenever I was in their presence. It took a few months, but eventually, my mouth could form garbled versions of words. Walking was easier than talking; I mastered that before I was even one.

  Amalia and Quintin pampered me throughout the process; however, Amalia was the worst of the two. Just because my body prevented me from talking or acting as I wanted, that didn’t mean I wasn’t absorbing every conversation I heard around me.

  The two of them tried having a baby for years. I knew that without being told. It was in the way Amalia lingered just a little too long when she held me, the way her fingers curled protectively around mine as if afraid I’d vanish.

  They even tried again while I was in their room in my crib—hope, desperation, and resignation all wrapped into one.

  But no child came.

  At some point, Amalia stopped trying.

  And me? I became enough.

  That’s why, when I got older and kept asking to go outside, Amalia was very hesitant. She likely wanted to keep me inside, safe, forever. Even so, she knew I couldn’t do that. Sooner or later, I’d need to leave the house.

  Thankfully, by the time I wanted to see the outdoors, my hair was already coming in. Like the woman who birthed me, it was long, thick, and dark like the feathers of a crow. It easily hid my ears, especially when Amalia helped me style it.

  At some point, I started to enjoy my life and routine. I had a family, a safe place to stay, and some freedom.

  Then I turned three.