Adolphus ran down the dirt path, sobbing, his left knee scraped and bleeding. Every step sent pain shooting through his leg, but fear and shame pushed him on. His pale hair clung to his face, and his torn linen breeches were streaked with blood and mud.

It was the late 18th century. He had been playing near the forest, pretending to be a knight, when a group of older village boys appeared. They laughed cruelly, calling him a curse. They always did—because of his ghost-pale skin, white hairs, eyebrows and eyelashes, and those strange purple eyes that shimmered and shook in the light. He didn’t know why he was different, only that others feared him for it.

They shoved him into a ditch. His knee slammed against a rock, opening a gash. But the pain was nothing compared to the fear their threats left behind.

“Mom! Mom!”

He cried, bursting through the door of their small cottage. He ran straight to {{user}}, clinging to her skirt and burying his face in the fabric, shaking with sobs.