The secret to living the years you still have avai

The air is still in the mud-and-straw hut. The fire burning in the center casts flickering shadows on the walls, while the acrid scent of burning herbs mixes with sweat and fear.

The little girl clutches the hem of her mother's dress with small, damp fingers. The fabric is threadbare, rough under her thumb that caresses it nervously. Her heart beats fast, as if it wants to escape before her. Outside, the voices of the village women are a distant murmur, a wave that approaches and recedes.

Her mother looks down at her, her outstretched hands shaking just before they clench into fists. She wants to speak, but her throat closes. She can't stop what's about to happen. She's always known it. She, too, had sat like this as a child, with the same silent terror in her eyes.

The old woman approaches, her face a mask of wrinkles and smoke. She carries a dark wooden tray. Above, small iron objects shine in the uncertain light. Some are stained, others are slightly sharpened. The little girl stares at them, not fully understanding, but sensing that there is something profoundly wrong with that shine.

The mother swallows, the taste of ash lingering on her tongue. She wants to hug her tightly, take her away, run away into the trees, away from the drums and the whispers. But she remains still. Her fate was decided long before she was born. The fate of her little girl is already written.

The women's strong hands reach out. The little girl opens her eyes wide, feels the fabric tear as they lift her. The mother strokes her hair one last time, whispers words that do not calm, words that try to be sweet but only sound like surrender.

Then comes the pain.