Page 3 of The Book of Heartbreak

A curse is a fault within the divine order – intentionally or, at times, unwittingly. Many who bear curses traverse their lives without the faintest inkling of their burden, while others may never forget such a realisation until they’re in the arms of Death.

Excerpt from The Book of Heartbreak, Müneccimbasi Sufi Chelebi’s Journals of Mystical Phenomena

Family is fate. It seeks to expand and endure, defying time in a rebellion against individual mortality. It wants to live forever, leaving marks on the earth, begging not to be forgotten.

So people invent surnames to enclose themselves in families; everyone is born into a lineage branded by your ancestors.

But a surname isn’t the only thing you receive without consent.

You inherit genes. Moles. Dimples. Birthmarks.

Illnesses. You inherit your mother’s smile or temper.

The tremble in her hands when she’s nervous, the way she brushes off compliments about her beauty.

You inherit a cage of loneliness and the ache of not belonging.

And sometimes, if you’re as unfortunate as I am, you inherit poor luck – passed down like a family heirloom, coursing through your blood like poison.

Not that Mum is – was – cursed like I am.

She and I were always opposites, as if our roles had been reversed.

As if I was the parent and she was the child.

I won’t take a step without calculating the risks and she never considered the consequences of her actions.

I live in a voluntary isolation, barring affection and avoiding any meaningful connections, while Mum dived head first into relationships, desperate to be loved.

Yet the men who adored her were the ones she couldn’t stand; she always fell for those who had no mercy for her.

Perhaps I’m luckier than she was. Perhaps I should be grateful that I can’t ever let a boy into my heart. I can’t lower my guard, not even for a second. I can’t afford to feel love.

Because love is a four-letter death sentence for someone like me, cursed to die of heartbreak.

I was four when I almost died for the first time, and this near miss gave me Munu – the only soul who is ever allowed close to me.

Our first encounter is etched vividly in my mind. Later, when I understood how dangerous it is for me to open my heart to others, I used that memory as a shield, a way to ward off the hazards of potential friendships. But in that moment, I was blissfully unaware of the perils people could present.

A group of kids decided to disown me in the playground with that innocent, headstrong cruelty that belongs only to children.

If I close my eyes now, I can still see them running.

I can hear the flute of their laughter, the chorus of their words: you’re not playing with us .

I can feel the hot tears on my cheeks, the frantic fluttering in my chest, the scrape of rough bark against my skin as I fell to the ground.

Then the fluttering twisted, morphing into a sharp, searing burn.

I gasped for air, flailing like a fish out of water.

‘Don’t cry, canim,’ a voice soothed me. ‘Crying only makes it worse.’

I lifted my head to see a tiny woman, no taller than the length of my arm, hovering in mid-air. Her scruffy grey pigeon wings were barely noticeable against the puffy sugar-pink princess gown she wore. I thought she must be a fairy godmother here to save me.

She circled me and, distracted by the flapping of her wings, I forgot the sting in my chest.

I opened my hand and she landed on my palm with a sigh.

‘Your lifeline isn’t particularly long,’ she murmured, tiptoeing across my skin, each step a faint tickle.

‘But bolder than the others I’ve seen. My other assignments, I mean.

They did fine.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Mostly fine. But never mind that. You’re not just any old job. You’re quite special.’

I remained quiet, wondering if I’d fallen asleep. Maybe this was just a dream.

‘You’re too young, aren’t you?’ she asked suddenly. ‘How old are you now?’

‘Four,’ I answered, absent-minded.

‘Boss in Heavens!’ she gasped, covering her mouth with a tiny hand. ‘Just a baby, and ready to shatter like glass. Tell me now, sweet girl, do you feel funny around here?’ She poked a finger to her chest.

‘Not any more,’ I said, and her smile widened.

‘Well, that is good. I’ve successfully saved you.’ She beamed. ‘Sare Sila Silverbirch, my name is Munu, and I’m your guardian.’

‘Like a fairy godmother?’ I ventured, hopeful.

‘Ah . . . wouldn’t it be lovely if I had a magic wand?

’ She chuckled. ‘I’d flick it and – poof – everything would be fixed!

But no, I have no wands to wave or stardust to sprinkle, I’m afraid.

Perhaps I’m a godmother of sorts, but my powers are .

. . limited. Very limited. I work for my boss, who answers to some very important bosses on the Otherside.

They’re called the Hidden. It’s complicated, but what matters is this: the organisation serves mortals like you. ’

I blinked, unable to process her words. My confusion must have shown; Munu’s eyes softened.

‘If it helps,’ she said gently, ‘a long time ago, I was a living, breathing soul – just like you. Trust me, I understand how much it hurts. I had a heart before I died.’ She pauses to frown. ‘I still have one, I guess.’

‘You’re dead?’ I blurted, gaping at her.

‘In theory.’ Munu cleared her throat again. ‘Or practice. Doesn’t matter.’

‘Where’s my mummy?’ I scanned the park anxiously. The tiny woman didn’t seem malicious but her admission of being dead made my stomach tighten.

‘There,’ Munu said, pointing behind the fences.

Mum stood laughing with a man, perhaps another parent or a stranger, but turned to wave at me. She had a striking beauty that drew men to her like wasps to a honey pot.

‘You did very well today, canim. Remarkable!’ Munu chimed without batting another glance in my mother’s direction. ‘Now I’m not sure how much sense this will make to you, but you almost died today. A near miss for this little heart of yours, but I made it in time.’

‘W-what do you mean?’ I rose to my feet, Munu still in my palm.

‘Listen closely – there’s no easy way to tell you this, so I will be direct,’ Munu said, taking a deep breath.

‘You’re cursed, Sare. If your heart breaks five times before the age of eighteen, your mortal life will finish.

Can you even count to five? Boss in Heavens, we must use those heartbreaks wisely, if we use them at all. ’

I stared at her with a furrowed brow.

‘Four years old, and already so delicate.’ Munu took off, leaving my bare palm behind. ‘We’re treading on thin ice – this is a dangerous task.’

‘What do you mean, dangerous?’ I dropped my hand.

‘Don’t you worry about it,’ Munu huffed. ‘I’ll protect you from the horrors of mankind. Just promise me this: don’t you ever cry, alright? It’s the first and foremost rule.’

I nodded, unsettled by the gravity of her warning. It would take me a few more years to fully grasp what it meant to bear a curse – how, beneath my ribcage, tucked behind bones curving like praying fingers, lay a heart so flawed that it would kill me with each heartbreak.

‘I mean it. It’s the first rule of survival against the curse, Sare. No tears shall fall. You won’t cry, alright?’

‘But why me?’ I whispered, curiosity bubbling in my chest. ‘Why do I have a curse?’

‘Why, why, why? That’s all anyone ever asks!’ Munu’s wings stilled, her gaze hardened. ‘You have these stubborn curls and brown eyes, and a cursed heart. It all happens because it does. There is no why. You should be grateful to have my invaluable assistance – many aren’t so fortunate.’

‘Okay.’ I nodded again, the weight of her words pressing heavier this time.

‘Aren’t you a sweetheart, canim?’ Munu’s wings shifted with a soft, feathery sweep, like a sparrow’s. ‘Too kind and gentle for your own good.’

With that, Munu became a constant presence in my life, visiting daily, often more than once.

Days elongated into weeks, and weeks into months, gradually expanding the dense veil of childhood, and it dawned on me that I was the only person capable of seeing or hearing Munu.

I was surprisingly at peace with this realisation, for it made me feel special.

I tried again to ask her at times, ‘Why am I cursed?’ No one else around me seemed to tolerate such a burden.

But Munu would always shut me down. The Hidden were called Hidden for a reason – questioning their ways was futile.

‘Curiosity never ends well, especially with a boss like mine,’ she’d warn, and eventually I stopped trying.

I never told Mum about Munu. Back then, my mother doted on me, but she wouldn’t have believed me if I said I had an invisible godmother. Besides, Munu insisted it would only upset her. Mum was already sad, and her sadness made everything harder.

Munu’s lively banter served as a beacon of light in those dim days of my childhood. She was faithful to her promise to look after me, dedicating every single second that she remained in the world to my well-being and troubles.

I was the one who failed to keep my end of the bargain.

They say that your life flashes before your eyes when you die, but mine never has. Perhaps it was because the pain is blinding, or perhaps it was the sad fact that nothing noteworthy happened in my life except for dying.

I wish I could cite grand reasons for each time I lost my precious life – like love, betrayal or adventure – but they’re all disappointingly mundane. My first heartbreak was marked by the departure of a childminder.