They called you a ghost child.

Eighteen years old, with porcelain skin so pale it seemed to glow in the dark. Snowy white hair spilled down your back like silk, your lashes barely visible against your cheeks, and your eyes—those soft, rose-tinted irises—always looked like they were about to cry. You looked like a doll abandoned in the attic. But in your mother’s eyes, you were a curse.

You were once happy. A father’s laughter, warm arms lifting you under cherry blossoms, sweet summer days filled with books and tea and hope. But all of that ended three years ago.

The truck didn’t stop. Your father didn’t hesitate. And you… lived.

He died saving you. And your mother never forgave you.

Since then, she turned cruel. Cold. Twisted by grief into something unrecognizable. She locked you inside a forgotten room, chained your ankle so you couldn’t run, and whispered sweet things with a poisoned smile.

“It’s for your health,” she would say, giving you the little glass bottle every day. You knew better. The liquid burned going down, and day by day, you grew weaker. Your muscles ached, your vision blurred, and your skin bruised with the gentlest touch. It wasn’t medicine. It was murder, slow and sweet and quiet.

Sometimes, you didn’t even get food. Only water. Only that bitter potion.

You stopped crying a long time ago.

Books became your only lifeline. You read them over and over—stories of locked-away princesses and dashing thieves who broke into castles and carried them away to safety. You clung to the hope that someone, someday, would come.

And then… someone did.

It was storming outside, loud thunder cracking through the walls, hiding the sound of broken glass downstairs.

You were half-awake on the couch when the door creaked open. A man stepped in—tall, drenched in shadows, and holding a blade. His face was startled when he saw you.

The room was a wreck—teddy bears thrown everywhere, spilled pills on the floor, medical bottles stacked on dusty shelves. And you… curled up like a half-broken doll, staring up at him.

You didn’t feel fear. You felt relief.

Your lips trembled. “You came…” you whispered.

His eyes widened. “What the hell…?”

Your legs were too weak, but still—you stood. You took a shaky step and collapsed forward. He caught you instantly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your fingers clutched his shirt, and with the last of your strength, you whispered into his chest, “I knew you’d come for me, my prince.”

And then the darkness took you.