❄️ Winter’s Promise
One cold winter evening, the village was quiet and covered in gray, like a blanket of silence. The lake was frozen, and even the wind seemed afraid to make a sound. Near the edge of the lake, between leafless bushes and icy rocks, stood a tall, thin woman dressed in black. Her coat flapped in the wind like a ghost.
In her arms was a small boy, around six years old. He wore an old jacket and shook—not just because of the cold, but because he was scared.
“You’re not my real child,” the stepmother said coldly. “I’ve dealt with you long enough. You always watch me, like you know secrets you shouldn’t.”
The boy didn’t say anything. He held tightly to a small wooden rabbit—his last gift from his real mother, who had died three years ago. It was the only thing he had left to remember her by.
“Say thank you,” the stepmother said coldly as she walked toward a hole in the frozen lake.
The boy understood what was about to happen. But he didn’t cry or beg. He just looked at her with calm, wise eyes—far too wise for someone so young.
“You…” he said softly but firmly, “You will never be a mother.”
The woman flinched. His eyes seemed to hold something ancient and frightening—something more than just a child. She froze in fear. In that moment, she saw not a little boy, but a powerful force beneath the ice.
It was too late.
Her hands let go. The boy slipped into the freezing water without a sound. There was no scream, no splash—only small ripples, then silence.
She stood still for a moment, then turned and walked away without looking back. She didn’t hear the ice cracking behind her. She didn’t hear the whisper in the wind:
“You… will… never… be… mother…”
Three days passed, but the boy’s body was never found. The lake froze over again, as if it wanted to forget what had happened.
A week later, strange things started happening in the house. At night, she heard the sound of bare feet in the hallway. Toys would fall for no reason. The door to the child’s room would slowly creak open.
One morning, she found the wooden rabbit on her bed—soaking wet.
Each night, the same whisper came closer and closer:
“You… will… never… be… mother…”
She grew pale. Her eyes looked hollow, and dark veins appeared under her skin. The cold filled the house like it was alive.
She tried to get rid of the rabbit. She burned it, broke it, left it far away—but every morning, it came back, wet like it had come from the bottom of the lake.
Then, he came back. First as a whisper. Then a breath. Then footsteps. Then she saw him standing in the doorway. His face. His eyes. But it wasn’t the boy anymore—it was something much older and more powerful.
She tried everything: priests, witches, candles, incense—but nothing worked. The more she resisted, the stronger the curse became.
One night, she woke up and felt a freezing hand grab her wrist. No one was there—but a mark was left behind: a small handprint, so cold it burned.
Terrified, she went back to the lake. The ice had frozen over again, smooth and quiet. But she knew something was there.
“What do you want from me?!” she shouted into the darkness. “Please leave me alone! I can’t take this anymore!”
Only the wind replied.
Then, a voice spoke right behind her.
“You knew I wasn’t just a normal boy,” he said. “Mama used to tell me, ‘If evil ever hurts me, I’ll come back.’ And now… I’m back.”
She turned around. He was standing there—soaking wet, with icicles hanging from his hair, holding the wooden rabbit. His eyes were black and empty, like bottomless holes.
“You didn’t just hurt a child,” he whispered. “You woke up something sleeping deep below…”
The ice beneath her feet began to crack.
“Please…” she said, shaking. “I… I…”
She never got to finish. The ice broke open, and she fell into the freezing water—just like the boy had. But this time, the water wasn’t just cold—it was alive and hungry. It didn’t let her go.
By morning, there was only one thing floating on the