A New York City that no longer exists—a city of rusted fire escapes, flickering streetlights, and forgotten prayers. The booklet is small, its pages stained by rain, soot, and footsteps, as if it has already passed through many hands… and been rejected by all of them.

When you open it, the story begins immediately—without warning, without mercy.

It tells of the birth of a child. A life so physically misshapen, so unsettling to behold, that the world recoils from him at first glance. His presence alone provokes fear, disgust, and violence. From the moment he enters the world, it is made clear that he will not be welcomed, tolerated, or allowed to exist quietly among the so-called beautiful.

Yet the deeper horror is not his form.

As the pages turn, it is revealed that the child’s inner nature—simple, gentle, innocent, and God-touched—is deemed even more offensive than his appearance. His kindness is mocked. His compassion is punished. His faith and purity is misunderstood as weakness. At every step of his journey, those he encounters—preachers, strangers, lovers, authorities, and crowds—label his goodness itself as ugly.

This is not merely his story.

As you continue reading, the lines between character and reader begin to dissolve. You may recognize pieces of yourself in those who turn away… and in the one who is turned away from. The tale holds up a dark mirror, asking uncomfortable questions about mercy, cruelty, faith, and the quiet violence of conformity.

By the time you reach the final curtain, you may feel exposed—unnerved—as if something within you has been seen, named, and judged. The chill that follows is not from the city streets, but from the realization that the true deformity in this world may not be physical at all.

The booklet does not offer comfort. It offers recognition.

And once opened, it does not easily let you go