Long ago, at the edge of a village lived a widow. Her husband had gone to war and never returned, and sorrow had hollowed her out.
One spring, she found a child at the forest’s edge – horned, rough-skinned, its face more goat than human. The villagers cried to drown it before misfortune followed.
But the widow fled into the woods, clutching the creature in her arms.
Years passed. One day, the village’s old alderman was wandering deep among the trees and found a clearing: a crooked house, a small garden. The widow was still alive, older but unbowed. By her side stood the child, now grown huge and monstrous – thrice the size of the poor woman – but seemingly gentle in its ways.
The widow was afeared as she spotted him. She stood in front of her child and said, "Let us be, I beg of you. All these years, we’d stayed away from you and yours. We always will."
Though her face was wrinkled with time, her eyes looked brighter than ever. Life had returned to them – peace, and maybe even happiness.
The alderman nodded and turned away – he’d seen nothing, he’d say nothing.
Some things are better left to silence.