When we first moved to Bovka town, the houses had red brick walls and steep roofs, and there was a huge clock tower right in the middle of the town square. I imagined I would have lots of adventures here.

But something about the place felt… wrong.

The people smiled, but their smiles didn’t feel real. They looked old and tired. Not tired from having a long day, but tired like they had been carrying something heavy for years. Daddy said it was just “small town life.” Mommy said we'd get used to it. But even after a few weeks, things didn’t get better.

Daddy started forgetting things. Mommy’s hands shook whenever she cooked. And me, I usually woke up every morning feeling pain like I had run a marathon in my dreams. My knees hurt. My back ached. I was only eight, but when I looked in the mirror, my face seemed older, somehow.

I heard my parents whispering at night when they thought I was asleep. They were scared. And so was I.

One rainy afternoon, Daddy took me with him to the old library. It smelled like dust and secrets. While he read through newspapers and thick books, I wandered. In a corner, I found a picture of a girl with long black hair and sad eyes. Underneath it, someone had written her name in faded ink: Elora.

A man saw how I looked at the picture with puzzled eyes that needed answers, and he explained that a long time ago, the people here blamed Elora for all the bad things that happened, given the circumstances around her birth and her parents’ death. They said she was a witch. They hurt her badly. And when she died, she said something that cursed the whole town.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about Elora—how scared she must have been. How lonely. I didn't think she had been a bad person. I thought she had been just like me.

The next day, I went to the old town square. It was broken and forgotten. In the middle stood a small statue with an inscription just above it which read “THE WITCH OF BOVKA.” The statue was so worn by time that you could barely see her face, but I knew it was Elora’s.

I picked a little white flower from a crack in the ground. Kneeling by the statue, I placed it at her feet and whispered, “I’m sorry for what they did to you. You didn’t deserve it.”

The air changed around me. It felt like someone was there, someone who had been crying for a long time and had finally been heard. A warm breeze brushed my face, and I knew somehow that Elora wasn’t angry anymore.

After that, everything got better. Daddy laughed and was feeling youthful again. Mommy’s hands stopped shaking. And the town changed, too. Windows opened. Music played in the streets. People smiled — real smiles.

I never saw Elora. But sometimes, when the wind rustles the trees, I think I hear her laugh — young, free, and finally at peace.