Chapter 1

My name is Ethan, and for twenty years, the people of Havenwood called me a blessing.

This town was my whole world, a small collection of farms and houses surrounded by miles of empty fields.

And for twenty years, I gave them everything.

From the back of my neck, just below my hairline, grew a single, long feather. It wasn't like a bird's feather. It shimmered with colors that didn't have names, and it was soft but unbreakable. When I held it, I could feel the life in the world around me. I could coax corn from dry soil, find fresh water deep underground, and soothe a fever in a sick calf with just a touch.

I never asked for anything in return. I did it because these were my people, this was my home. I believed this gift was meant for them.

That all ended last week.

The betrayal didn't come with a warning. It came with shouting and torches in the middle of the night. It was the entire town, all the people I had helped, all the faces I had known since I was a child. They stood in my yard, their faces ugly with anger.

Mr. Gable, the town elder whose farm I had saved from drought three years in a row, stood at the front.

"You did this!" he screamed, his voice shaking.

He pointed a trembling finger at me.

"This blight on the crops, it's your fault. You brought this curse upon us."

The accusation was insane. A strange, stubborn mold was killing the wheat, something my ability couldn't immediately wash away. It resisted my efforts, and for the first time, I had told them I needed time to understand it.

They didn't give me time. They gave me blame.

"He's been hoarding his power," a woman yelled from the crowd. I recognized her as Mrs. Finch. I had helped her find the lost locket her grandmother gave her.

"He's been poisoning us," another man shouted.

I stood on my porch, speechless. These were the same people who had praised me, who had brought me pies and hand-knitted sweaters as thanks. Now, they looked at me like I was a monster.

The next morning, the county sheriff arrived. His name was Davis, a man with a tired face and a heavy belt. He didn't want to be here, I could tell. But Mr. Gable and the town council had filed a formal complaint.

They sat me down in my own kitchen, the sheriff on one side, Mr. Gable on the other.

"Ethan," Sheriff Davis started, his voice low. "They're making some serious claims. They say you intentionally damaged their property. Their livelihood."

"That's not true," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "You know it's not. I've spent my life helping this town."

"Helping?" Mr. Gable scoffed. "You made us dependent. You played God with our lives, and now you've decided to punish us."

The absurdity of it was suffocating. I remembered a winter five years ago when the flu swept through Havenwood. I went from house to house, day and night, laying my hand on feverish foreheads until my own body ached with exhaustion. I didn't sleep for three days.

I remembered little Timmy Gable, Mr. Gable's own grandson, who had fallen into Miller's Creek. I found him half-drowned and pulled the water from his lungs until he coughed and cried. His grandfather had hugged me then, tears streaming down his face.

Now, he looked at me with pure hatred.

"Why?" I asked him, looking directly into his eyes. "Why are you doing this?"

He didn't answer. He just stared back, and in his eyes, I saw the truth. It wasn't about the blight. It was about control. They had grown tired of asking for my help. They wanted to own the miracle. They believed that if they got rid of me, the gift would somehow become theirs. A deep, ugly greed had taken root in my town, far worse than any blight on the wheat.

I felt a cold emptiness inside me. I finally understood that my devotion had been wasted. They didn't see me as a person, they saw me as a resource. And now that the resource wasn't working perfectly, they wanted to break it open and see what was inside.

Sheriff Davis sighed, a long, weary sound.

"I have to take you in, Ethan. There's a formal complaint. We have to investigate."

He pulled out a pair of handcuffs. The metal was cold against my wrists. As he led me out of my house, the whole town was there to watch. They didn't look guilty. They looked triumphant.

I stopped at the edge of my porch and looked at them, at all their familiar, hateful faces. I wasn't angry anymore. I was just empty.

I spoke, and my voice was quiet but carried across the silent yard.

"You will remember me," I said. "You will all remember me when you're thirsty."

They just laughed as the sheriff put me in the back of his car.