Nothing From Nothing

I was not born of a mother or a father, and I grew more slowly than the other village children. They ridiculed me, yet I could not hate them because I knew I was different. My large eyes did not bear the common brown like theirs; instead, they shone a rich gold, gleaming with an otherworldly luster that seemed to capture the light in an almost hypnotic way. My hair was not a dull black or brown like theirs but a stark white, each strand fine and silky, cascading down to my shoulders in a striking contrast against my deep, ebony skin. The villagers often stared, their eyes lingering on my features as if trying to decipher the enigma I embodied.
I was taken in by a large woman who owned a bakery. She was not cruel, but like the rest, she treated me with a distant indifference. She provided for me, though our interactions were sparse and devoid of warmth. One day, I mustered the courage to ask her a question that had been haunting me. "Ama, why do you call me Nihilo?"
She paused from kneading the dough and looked at me with a mix of dread and resignation. "Because you appeared out of nothing, and nothing comes from nothing."