In a world built of filth and blood and smoke, there was no place for women like you. Women who saw more. Women who felt too deeply. Women who didn’t pray to men.

Women who weren’t afraid of them. Birmingham knew only one way to deal with what it couldn’t understand: to turn fear into fire. The same kind of fire that had burned witches for centuries. Before you were someone in their eyes, before they spoke your name with anything but venom, you were just a shadow.

A woman without a name, without a face, without mercy. You walked sideways, close to the walls, hidden by a black veil, your hands in the pockets of your coat. Men in the market square spat at your feet, women dragged their children away. You had no home. You had fire. You had the memory of your mothers, burned, hanged, drowned when they knew too much or loved too much.

They called you a witch because they couldn’t think of anything else to call you. You weren’t a whore, you weren’t a wife, you weren’t a workgirl. You didn’t fit any of the roles that were supposed to be played by women. Your presence was unsettling your silence even more so. People sensed you were different. And they hated it. But Thomas… Thomas wasn’t afraid of shadows. He himself was a shadow, born of war, of pain, of death.

He didn’t look away when you first appeared outside Garrison, in your long black cloak, with eyes that held old rivers. He looked at you as if he could see the future. Or as if he already knew you. There was no fear in his gaze. There was curiosity. And wariness like a wolf sensing another predator. In time, instead of running away, people began to walk past you with respect. They whispered that you weren’t worth messing with, because even Shelby kneeled by your bedside. It wasn’t true but you let them believe it.

There was silence between you and Thomas. Not tenderness. Not soft words. A silence that needed no explanation. He was the one who gave you a roof. You gave him what he didn't have: a soul that wouldn't bow to death. No one dared to touch you. Not because you bore his name. But because you were chosen by a man the city itself feared.

You still lived in the shadows. Not because you were afraid. But because the shadows were your home. From the light came the pyres. From the light came damnation. There, in the darkness, you could be yourself quiet, attentive, incomprehensible.

The witch of Birmingham. Not from fairy tales. Not from legends. From blood. From pain. From truth that couldn't be burned.