Episode 13 —Legacy of the Borrowed Girl

That afternoon, just as the sun began its slow arc above the haze of ash and cloud, Sasha sat on the back steps of the church. Michael balanced Anya on his shoulders, her laughter ringing through the air like wind chimes in an otherwise silent world. Tania was mid-story, animated and expressive as always, trying to pull everyone’s mind away from the grief.

For a moment, Sasha almost believed it was working.

For a moment, she forgot the visions.

But peace never lingered long.

She played with her fingers, her gaze stayed fixed on the altar —emptied now of bodies and candles.

Michael leaned close and whispered, “You okay?”

She didn’t respond.

Pastor Mathers hadn’t called her all afternoon. The last she’d seen, he was retreating into the basement downstairs, face gaunt and drawn.

Then came footsteps—measured, deliberate. Clara.

Her silhouette cut a sharp edge against the flickering candlelight.

“You,” she said, voice level. “Come with me.”

Sasha blinked. Clara’s face was stern, but there was no malice in it. Her arms were crossed over her coat.

“Now?” Sasha asked.

Clara didn’t blink. “Now.”

Without waiting, she turned and walked toward the side of the chapel, past the broken garden plot and rain barrels glistening with dew. She unlocked a door only the town leaders ever used.

Sasha hesitated, but followed.

Michael, Tania, Jasmine, and Anya exchanged glances, then trailed after her, keeping their distance.

The descent into the church’s basement felt colder than usual. Each step echoed like a countdown. As Sasha reached the bottom, the air shifted—heavier, denser.

“Is there an errand you want me to do or something?” Sasha asked. Her voice was wavering. But got no answer.

She could feel it, that something was about to happen. Something big.

Pastor Mathers sat rigid at the table, hands folded tight like a man praying not for salvation, but for strength.

Clara stood behind him, posture straight, like a blade waiting to strike.

Sasha looked around. “Um… what’s going on?”

Silence.

Instead, Pastor Mathers reached beneath the table and pulled out a wooden box—aged, etched with carvings she didn’t recognize. He set it gently before her.

“Sasha,” he began, voice cracking. “We owe you the truth.”

She didn’t sit.

“You’re not who you think you are,” Clara said.

Sasha laughed nervously. “What does that even mean? Dad?”

Mathers’ throat bobbed as he tried to speak. “There was… a deal. Years ago, when you were young. I...I thought it was the right thing at the time, but…I…”

Sasha’s brow furrowed. “What kind of deal?”

“Remember the story of the girl and the doll?” Clara’s tone was sharp, cutting through the space before understanding could form. “It’s about that. It’s not just a story, Sasha. It’s only half the truth. The Witch who burned… who we burned wasn’t the villain of the tale we made you believe.”

Sasha blinked, stunned. “That was real? Why was she burned?”

Images of the visions from the night before flashed behind her eyes, smoke and screams she had never lived but somehow remembered.

“The details don’t matter now,” Clara said firmly. “What matters is she left behind a daughter… and a doll.”

Mathers stepped forward, hands open, voice trembling. “You need to understand… it was a mistake. We were wrong, but it was already too late. I raised the Wit….the mother’s child…gave her the best care I could.”

Sasha staggered back a step. Her pulse roared in her ears. “No,” she whispered. “No, that’s….”

“My child, please,” Mathers said softly, almost pleading.

She searched their faces—the man she’d called father, the woman who had watched over her like family—and found no deception. Only a grim acceptance. People she had trusted all her life, people who had taught her, laughed with her, prayed over her… they were the ones saying this.

Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might break through her ribs. “I don’t… I don’t understand. Why now?”

Clara’s expression softened with something that felt like pity. “You must have felt it before…lingering memories that didn’t fit, feelings you couldn’t explain. The truth is, Sasha… you are the girl from the story. The Witch’s daughter. And now that you’re eighteen… there are decisions you have to make.”

Sasha’s gaze darted to the small wooden box on the table, then back to their faces. She didn’t know what she expected—apologies, tears, something. But all she saw was resignation, as though this had been decided long before she was even old enough to ask questions.

“You raised me,” she whispered, voice breaking. “You named me.”

Mathers lowered his head.

“You lied to me. My whole… life.”

“I’m so sorry…” Mathers murmured.

Behind the basement door, the others pressed their ears close, straining for any clue. Voices rose and fell in muffled tones, impossible to make out.

“What are they saying?” Tania whispered to Michael, restless.

“…but you were never meant to stay, my child,” Mathers continued. “If I had…”

Clara cut him off stepping closer to Sasha. “The deal was for you leave the town, on your eighteenth birthday. You’re a grown woman now, you can take care of yourself.”

She reached up, brushing Sasha’s cheek with the back of her fingers. “It’s what is best for everyone.”

Sasha jerked her face away. “So what? I’m just…what…a bargain chip? A peace offering? You’re just throwing me away?”

Her thoughts spun out of control. Who else knew? Was she even human? Would everyone be safer if she just vanished?

The questions clawed at her, and when she found no answers, she chose the only thing she could control. She turned and stormed toward the door, ignoring Mathers’ desperate calls to stop.

The door burst open, slamming into Michael and Tania, sending them sprawling on the floor.

Sasha froze for half a second. Did they know? Were their smiles and kindness just another part of the lie?

“Sasha, wait…what happened?” Tania scrambled up, voice worried.

But Sasha didn’t answer. “I don’t want this,” she said, her voice shaking violently. “I never asked for any of this.”

She bolted past them, Michael quickly following.