In the damp dawn of the fourteenth century, the land by the river seemed especially silent, as if nature itself were holding its breath. Mist drifted over the water, muffling the sounds, and only the occasional cries of crows pierced the cold air. Martha, a woman whose face had long learned to show neither surprise nor fear, walked along the bank, heavily placing her feet through the wet grass. Her morning was no different from hundreds of others—until the moment when the silence was broken by a sound that did not belong here.
At first, she thought it was the wind playing in the branches. But the sound came again—thin, piercing, alive. A baby’s cry. Martha froze, as if the earth itself had held her in place. Her heart tightened. In these parts, babies are not left behind… unless they are meant never to be found. “Wait… what is that sound… a child?..” she whispered, and her voice sounded чужим even to herself.
She moved toward the sound, pushing aside the wet grass, not noticing how the hem of her clothes darkened with water. The crying grew louder, more desperate, as if it were calling specifically to her. Each step became harder, as though fate itself were testing her resolve. And then, at the very edge of the water, she stopped. Before her stood a cradle—rough, wooden, as if made in haste, yet sturdy enough to endure the journey.
Martha dropped to her knees and looked inside. There lay a baby—tiny, alive, wrapped in fabric far too fine for this place. Its face was pale from the cold, but its breathing was steady. She carefully lifted the child, pressing it to her chest, and in that moment her stern face faltered. “Who would leave a baby out in the cold…” she whispered, not expecting an answer.
But there was an answer. In the cradle, on the crumpled cloth, something glinted. Martha leaned closer and saw a ring—heavy, engraved with a crest that even she, a simple woman, could not fail to recognize. Such things do not belong to peasants. Such things are worn by those whose names are spoken in whispers. At that very moment, the baby turned its head slightly, and a mark appeared on its neck—strange, yet familiar.
Martha froze. A memory she had tried to forget for many years suddenly surfaced with terrifying clarity. The ring. The mark. The child. None of this could be a coincidence. Her hands trembled, but she did not let go of the baby. The wind fell silent, as if the world itself were waiting for her words. And then, almost inaudibly, she whispered, “Merciful Lord… it cannot be…”
