I don't cry like a normal baby.
Oh, I make the sounds. I scrunch my face. I wail on cue. But it's all an act—a mimicry. Something to ease the tension in the air around me. Something to keep up the illusion that I'm just a helpless little girl, unaware of the world she's been dragged into.
But I know where I am.
Even if I don't have Bela Talbot's memories, I have my own. And those memories told me exactly what this place is. The British accents. The cold, gilded nursery. The silver rattle with my initials engraved on it. The maids that never smile, and the mother who looks at me like a fragile, expensive accessory.
This isn't a dream.
This is Supernatural.
And I am Abigail "Bela" Talbot.
I don't know how I ended up in this body.
Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was cosmic irony. Maybe the Void just spun the wheel and dropped me into the worst timeline possible.
All I know is: I am not the Bela Talbot from canon.
I remember what happened to her.
I remember what he tried to do.
I remember the deal.
I will not follow her script.
From the outside, I'm a perfect little heiress—quiet, well-behaved, porcelain pretty. Inside, I am a warzone.
The power I brought with me is still there, coiled deep in my soul like a sleeping star. I can't use it yet, not actively. Not without tearing myself apart.
But it whispers to me.
Sometimes I see things—tiny shifts in light that no one else notices. A shadow stretching the wrong way. Time skipping half a heartbeat. A maid blinking too slowly, like a moment glitched around her.
The Void changed me.
It sees the cracks in the glass.
And now… I do too.
I don't remember my name from before.
That realization still stings.
In the Void, I clung to my memories like lifelines. My sister's face. My parents' laughter. The comfort of a show I loved too much. But somewhere in that transformation, in the chaos that became my soul, my name vanished.
It doesn't matter anymore.
That girl is gone.
All that remains is me, and the unbearable knowledge that I should not exist.
I'm two years old when I start experimenting.
It begins with tiny things.
I focus on the rattle above my crib, imagine it freezing in place—and for a split second, it does. Not just a trick of the light. Stopped. Hovering in air like time forgot about it.
The power inside me stirs, warm and slow, like magma deep under ice.
It knows I'm ready.
By three, I've mastered my body far beyond what a toddler should.
I walk too smoothly. I speak too clearly. My mind is decades older than the face in the mirror. But I've learned to mask it—just enough. Stumble sometimes. Giggle when expected. Play the part.
My parents don't notice.
They don't care.
Sarah, my mother, visits maybe once a week. She sits beside my crib like it's a photo shoot, makes small talk with the nanny, and leaves smelling of expensive perfume and hollow indifference.
Thomas, my father, shows up even less.
But when he does… he lingers.
Eyes too cold. Smiles too tight.
I don't need Bela's memories to know what he is.
It's in the way he stands too close. The way his fingers brush things that don't need touching.
He hasn't made a move yet.
He's waiting.
That gives me time.
By four, I'm learning control.
Not spells—not yet—but influence. A pull here. A bend there. A delay in sound. A shift in light. I test the world around me like a child poking at the edges of a dream, finding where the seams give.
The power responds to thought, not incantation.
Void magic doesn't follow rules.
It breaks them.
I don't reach out to anyone—not at first.
The energy inside me hides me. I know that instinctively. My presence is cloaked, my soul unreadable to magic or divine senses. That's why no angel has descended. Why no demon has come sniffing. The pulse of my birth may have caught the attention of psychics or witches, but it was distant, indistinct.
I'm a ripple no one can trace.
But that won't last forever.
And if I'm to survive in this world, I'll need more than power. I'll need knowledge. Allies. Mentors.
It starts as instinct.
My soul reaches outward in dreams—tugging at the threads of magic scattered across the world. I don't know what I'm searching for. Only that I have to.
And eventually… I feel something.
A presence.
Old. Powerful.
Watching.
Not like the Void—this is warmer. Sharper. Alive.
I recoil the first time. It doesn't follow. It just waits.
And night after night, I feel it again.
A pair of souls, bound together. Familiar in a way that doesn't make sense. Like twin flames flickering in the distance, calling to mine without words.
I don't know who they are.
Not yet.
But someday, I will.
And when I'm ready, I'll call them.
At five, everything changes.
Thomas enters my room one night.
It's late. The house is quiet.
I pretend to sleep.
His footsteps are too soft for a man that heavy. His breath too shallow. He stands over me for too long.
Then he touches my cheek.
Not lovingly. Not fatherly.
I open my eyes.
And I look at him.
Not like a child.
Not like a daughter.
Like what I am.
Something wrong. Something forged in the dark. Something that sees the cracks in the glass and could break the whole damn mirror if I wanted to.
He flinches.
Good.
That night, I don't sleep.
Instead, I reach out again.
This time, I don't pull back.
This time, I send a whisper through the void between worlds. A child's voice—tentative, cautious.
"I don't know who you are. But I need help."
And from the other side, a voice replies.
Warm. Wise. Familiar.
"Then you've found it."
I don't give them names. Not yet.
Not here.
They are distant stars in a world full of shadows, and I am just beginning to shine.
But soon…
Soon, they'll teach me how to burn.