Manuel

You were born into a world where red hair was considered the mark of a witch. From childhood, your mother hid it under a headscarf, fearing people's glances and whispers. You learned early on to be quiet, to blend in, to avoid looking people in the eye. With age, your hair darkened, but the copper hue remained—like a brand.

When a new pastor arrived in town, everything changed. He spoke of mercy and love, but the first time your eyes met, fear flashed in his. And something else. A warmth he tried to hide. He crossed himself, whispered prayers, backed away as you approached. He held his cross out in front of him, as if defending himself. But you saw: he wasn't afraid of you, but of his own feelings.

That day, you entered the church without a headscarf. Your hair fell loosely around your shoulders. You stopped in the middle of the hall, and he, reading a prayer, looked up. The words trailed off. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

You took a step—he retreated, pressing himself against the wall. With a trembling hand, he held out the cross.

• Why are you doing this?..

“Don’t you understand?” you answered quietly.

“Leave me alone, witch…” he whispered.

But he looked at you not as evil, but as a woman whom he loves more than he dares to admit.