{Little note from Author: Alright I swear this is the last one of the BETTER LEFT FORGOTTEN series trust me. I definitely have other titles for chapters in my head guys.}
'I was too late' the woman said to herself as she laid her little boy on a bed. The woman sat with her head in her hands, her eyes filled with regret and sorrow. She replayed the events in her mind, wishing she could turn back time and make things right. She couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that consumed her, knowing that she was unable to do what she had set out to do to protect the little boy she brought into this world. The weight of her unfulfilled promise hung heavily on her heart, and she longed for a chance to make amends.
She knew damn well that the boy's life will be a downhill descent from that point onwards. If only he was born in a world where his abilities wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb but alas he was brought unto earth. She turned her gaze to the boy. The boy lay there, his chest rising and falling rhythmically with each breath. His face was peaceful in slumber, with long eyelashes resting gently on his cheeks. His small hands were curled into loose fists, and a strand of white hair fell across his forehead. Despite the agony and stress his mother seemed to resonate, he appeared to exude an air of innocence and vulnerability as he slept soundly.
"He wouldn't even hurt a fly," the woman said as her eyes filled with tears," but they couldn't care less. It is but their nature, to destroy what they do not understand." her tone was filled with extreme sadness.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A group of people huddle together, their bodies slightly tilted inward as if forming a protective circle around a secret. Faces animate with whispers, eyes flicking from person to person as if confirming the safety of their words in this small, confidential enclave. Their voices, low and conspiratorial, seem to swell and ebb in waves, punctuated by the occasional exclamations or sharp bursts of rage. You can see the excitement flickering in their expressions as if they are sharing something too good to resist, something illicit but irresistibly tempting.
The body language of each person reveals a spectrum of engagement: one is leaning forward, eyes wide, hands gesticulating in sync with their words, obviously the source or central figure in this gossip. Another stands slightly behind, arms crossed but face drawn close, brows lifting occasionally as if caught between skepticism and delight. One individual nervously scans the room as if worried about being overheard, their hand half-covering their mouth as they add a quiet, biting comment that makes the group's laughter ripple. There's always someone who remains passive, absorbing it all, perhaps more interested in observing reactions than contributing, their eyes darting back and forth like they're gathering intel for later.
They speak in fragments, sharing half-finished sentences as though they already understand the full story or are trying to piece together more. "You won't believe how it happened…" one starts, only for another to jump in, "And then—how the bones connected?" Faces light up in reaction, nodding in eager agreement, each adding their own slice to the narrative. It's a rhythm of input and agreement, everyone speaking over one another, but somehow, they all understand the thread.
Their voices fluctuate, whispering one moment and becoming louder the next, mimicking the rising suspense of the tale they weave. Occasionally, their tone shifts into mock concern, "I mean, I feel bad for the kid, but…" And that "but" hangs in the air like an invisible permission to revel in the juiciness of the revelation. There is a sort of performance happening here: each person plays their part, feeding off the others' reactions, turning rumors into something more grandiose than it probably is.
Every so often, a pause fills the space as they listen to something, particularly suggestive, only to erupt moments later into shocked expressions or gasps. It's as if this collective exchange of information binds them together, if only for this moment. The gossip isn't just about the subject of their whispers—it's about the dynamic they share, the excitement of having a shared secret, something that momentarily gives them power, or at least the illusion of it. In this moment, they are united, conspirators in their private little world of whispers and judgment.
"So what are we to do with the boy," one shouted shattering their false sense of secrecy, "We must do something that will maybe put him under control or even get rid of him completely." That comment was the start of a chain reaction, everyone erupted into a rage we must do something they thought in unison.
"He'll kill us all if left to roam freely." one said. "YEAH," they shouted. The one who had fueled the flames of the villager's rage moved out of the crowd slowly and discreetly. He was satisfied with what he had done he vanished into thin air shortly after.