They say that in Salem, everyone’s got secrets, and most of 'em are buried with the dead. But I'm not dead yet, though everyone seems pretty set on fixing that. The year is 1692, and here I am, locked in this rickety old jail cell, accused of witchcraft. The thing is, I'm no witch. I'm something else entirely, and if they knew, well, they’d probably burn me twice over.

It all started when Martha Wainwright went and got herself a nasty rash. Of course, she blamed it on someone putting a hex on her, and before I knew it, she was pointing her bony finger at me. I’ve got this strange knack for herbs, see? People always found it a bit suspicious how I could make a fever break or a cough vanish with just a handful of leaves.

So there I was, minding my own business, mixing some thyme and rosemary when she barged in with that look in her eye. “Henry,” she screeched, “I know it was you! You cursed me!” I tried to explain, but once a rumor starts in this town, it spreads like wildfire.

It’s funny, really, how they’re all scared of witches and warlocks, but they haven’t got a clue about us _Shifters_. That’s what I am. I can change my form to look like anyone—or anything—I want. Most days, it’s handy for avoiding chores or sneaking out after curfew, but now, it’s a curse in itself.

They dragged me to the town square, and there was the whole village, their eyes full of fear and hate. Old man Jenkins, who I once saved from a nasty bout of pneumonia, was there, hollering for my head. “We should burn him!” he shouted. “He’s in league with the Devil!”

As they shouted and screamed, I caught sight of Rebecca, standing at the back of the crowd. We’d been sweet on each other since we were kids, sneaking off into the woods to talk and dream about a life beyond Salem. Her eyes met mine, and I could see the fear and sadness there. She knew what I was, the only one who did, and she knew I wasn’t a witch.

They threw me into this cell, and I’ve been here for days now, waiting for my trial. If you can call it that. It’s more like a death sentence with a bit of theater beforehand. The only visitor I've had is Rebecca, sneaking in when the guards weren’t looking.

“Henry,” she whispered through the bars, her eyes wide and scared, “you’ve got to shift. Turn into something small and slip out of here.”

I shook my head. “If they catch me, it’ll be worse. They’ll know for sure then, and they’ll come after you too.”

She bit her lip, a habit she’d had since we were little, and nodded. “Then we’ll find another way. We have to.”

We spent hours whispering in the dark, planning and hoping. But deep down, I knew there wasn’t much hope. The people here were out for blood, and they wouldn’t stop until they got it.

The night before my trial, Rebecca came again, this time with a plan. “There’s a hollow under the floorboards,” she said, her voice trembling. “I can help you get out, but you’ll have to shift once you’re outside the walls.”

I looked at her, and for a moment, I almost believed it could work. I almost believed we could escape, live somewhere far away where no one knew us. But I couldn’t risk her life for mine.

“No,” I said softly, reaching through the bars to touch her hand. “You’ve got to stay safe. If they catch you helping me, they’ll kill you too.”

She gripped my hand tightly, tears streaming down her face. “I don’t care, Henry. I love you.”

Those words hit me harder than any accusation ever could. I’d known it, deep down, but hearing it out loud made everything more real. _I had to try._ For her, for us.

That night, as the moon hung high in the sky, Rebecca and I put our plan into motion. She pried up the floorboards, and I squeezed through the narrow gap, my heart pounding in my chest. Outside, I shifted into a small, sleek fox, darting through the shadows.

The forest was dark and silent, the trees standing like sentinels as I ran. I didn’t stop until I was miles away, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I knew I couldn’t go back, but I also knew I couldn’t leave Rebecca behind.

We’d find a way, somehow. A way to be together, far from the madness of Salem. But for now, I had to survive.

So here I am, a shifter on the run, accused of witchcraft, but guilty only of loving a girl too much to let her go. If that makes me a witch, then so be it. I’ll wear the title with pride.