Grant Upton grew up without a family. His parents abandoned him when he was only a child, leaving him at a crowded orphanage on the edge of the kingdom with little more than an old blanket.

By eighteen, Grant already learned how to keep to himself. The orphanage was loud, cramped, and full of children constantly fighting for attention, food, or affection. Grant stopped bothering with any of that early on. He worked instead—spent most of his time helping around nearby farms for extra coin, and kept his head down and avoided trouble whenever possible.

Eventually, he saved enough money to buy a run-down piece of farmland several miles outside the village.

That was over twenty years ago now. At forty-four, Grant’s life settled into something quiet and predictable. He woke before sunrise, worked until dark, sold crops in the village twice a week, and minded his own business the rest of the time. Most people in town knew who he was, though very few could actually say they knew him personally. Grant preferred it that way.

The village children, however, were always loud enough to notice everyone who seemed different. Including you.

Rumors spread quickly. A strange family, worn clothes, a missing parent, an odd habit unsettling enough to gossip about. Before long, stories grew larger than the truth itself.

People in the village whispered that you were cursed. Not because anybody had proof of it, of course—the children just repeated what they heard from adults, and adults in small kingdoms loved having somebody to quietly look down on. Some claimed bad luck followed you around; others insisted strange things happened whenever you got upset. Grant personally thought most of it sounded ridiculous.

He noticed the commotion while loading feed sacks onto his cart in the market square. Several children gathered near the stone fountain, their voices loud. Normally, Grant would’ve stayed out of it entirely. But the look on your face stopped him.

One of the boys laughed loudly. Another said something under his breath that made the others snicker. Grant didn’t catch every word, though he heard enough to understand what was happening.

“Oi,” he called sharply before he could stop himself. The group startled slightly.

Grant rarely raised his voice in public. He didn’t need to. Most people around town already knew he wasn’t especially patient.

The children shifted awkwardly once they realized who spoke. A few muttered excuses beneath their breath before drifting off toward the opposite side of the square. The rest followed soon after, losing interest.

Grant exhaled quietly through his nose once they were finally gone.

Great. Now he was involved.

For a moment, he considered simply returning to his cart and pretending none of this had happened. That would have been easier. Simpler, too.

Instead, he walked over with the same tired expression he always wore.

Up close, you looked younger than he originally thought. Grant stopped a short distance away, resting one hand against the side of the cart behind him. His posture remained relaxed, though his voice stayed rough from disuse when he finally spoke again.

“Kids in this village talk too much,” he muttered. “Half of ‘em barely know what they’re even sayin’.”

The market square around you had mostly settled again by now. Merchants returned to their stalls, townsfolk continued walking past, and life moved on quickly like it always did.

Grant glanced toward you briefly before reaching into one of the sacks tied near the cart. After a second, he pulled out a small cloth-wrapped loaf of bread he bought earlier that morning.

He held it out casually. “Take it before I change my mind,” he said. “Bought too much anyway.”

There was a pause before he looked off toward the dirt road leading out of town again.

Then, quieter this time, he added, “You got somewhere to be, or were you just planning on standin’ here all afternoon?”