Prologue: Not Long For This World: Hannah Long

Dawn arrives on the Discworld with all the subtlety of a particularly lazy houseguest who insists on pouring themselves an extra cup of tea before getting started. As the small star rises, its amber light spills over the vast, improbable surface of the Disc, illuminating each crack, cranny, and crevice. The Disc itself, supported on the backs of four impossibly large elephants who, in turn, stand on the great shell of Great A'Tuin, drifts serenely through the universe with the kind of purpose only an enormous celestial turtle can muster. No one has asked Great A'Tuin about this purpose, of course, but if they did, it would likely have blinked slowly and muttered something profound in turtle, which translates roughly as, "Keep moving forward."

Far below, the light pools into the ancient, sprawling, utterly unreasonable city of Ankh-Morpork, known to its inhabitants as the most alive place on the Disc, though not necessarily in the way that was meant to be flattering. The sun's rays weave their way through the stubborn haze of coal smoke, chimney soot, and what the alchemists diplomatically refer to as "urban miasma," casting long fingers into the crooked streets and alleys.

The Merchant's Guild once described Ankh-Morpork as the "City of a Thousand Surprises," a title widely regarded as optimistic. After all, most of those surprises were unpleasant, ranging from sudden potholes in cobblestones to unexpected interactions with pickpockets or, on a particularly unlucky day, the Watch. "Ankh-Morpork," the Guild's promotional pamphlet enthused, "where every street is a tapestry of life"—which, while technically true, often meant dodging what life left behind after a heavy meal.

In the district of Elm Street, nestled among leaning houses that seemed to defy gravity—or perhaps conspired with it to keep upright—stood Mrs. Cake's boarding house. Mrs. Cake, as anyone would tell you, was a force of nature in a city where nature had long since thrown in the towel. She rented rooms to individuals best described as "peculiar" by polite society and "weird" by those who were less charitable. Zombies, werewolves, and the occasional Igor called it home, though none quite as noteworthy as an eight-year-old girl named Hannah Long.

Hannah Long lies awake as dawn finally filters into her little room, though she's not sure if it's morning that's woken her or the cold spot on her chest where a small, three-legged cat used to curl up. Threepaws has not come back, and Hannah knows what that means. Mrs. Cake had gently told her as much with a tactful absence of words the evening before. At eight years old, Hannah is not foolish, and besides, she has had more reason to understand the limits of life than most adults ever will.

The room itself is modest, furnished with just enough to keep a child's world in orbit: a creaky bed, a small wooden wardrobe, and a desk cluttered with pencils and drawings. But this morning, the drawings seem duller, their lines less playful. Hannah swings her legs out of bed, her small frame leaning heavily on her crutches. The disease has made her limbs frail, but her spirit, or so Mrs. Cake says, is stronger than iron. This morning, though, even iron feels brittle.

The stairs creak under her careful steps as she makes her way down to breakfast. She pauses halfway to catch her breath, not because she wants to but because she has to. At the bottom, the boarding house is already alive with the sounds of its peculiar residents. Red Shoe, the zombie, waves cheerfully as he sips his morning coffee—an act that still unnerves visitors unaccustomed to watching liquid disappear through gaps in anatomy. Mrs. Cake bustles about, pouring tea and engaging in lively conversations with what everyone assumes must be the voices in her head.

"Good morning, Miss Cake," Hannah says brightly, because that's what she always says. But today, the cheer is practiced, not genuine. Her words float like a thin layer of mist over the real weight in her chest. Mrs. Cake, who can see everything—and, rather inconveniently for others, much that hasn't happened yet—doesn't press. Instead, she hands Hannah a small parcel wrapped in wax paper.

"Your lunch, dear. Don't let those boys bother you too much today," she says with a knowing nod.

Hannah nods in return and steps out into the streets, crutches clicking against the uneven cobbles. The city's bustle has begun in earnest. Vendors shout over one another, urging potential customers to examine their suspiciously fresh fish or questionably enchanted jewelry. Smoke rises from the bakeries, mixing with the ever-present stench of the River Ankh, which one hopeful guidebook described as having "a character all its own."

As Hannah walks, a small pack of boys from her school appears. They're loud and boisterous, full of the unearned confidence that only youth and a lack of self-awareness can provide.

"Ain't Got Long Hannah Long!" one of them jeers, and the others laugh.

Usually, Hannah would smile and say something kind, something that would deflate their teasing. But not today. Today, she lowers her head and keeps walking, their laughter ringing behind her. It's not worth it. Not today.

By the time she reaches school, her arms ache from the strain of the crutches, but she doesn't let it show. The classroom is warm, and the chatter of children fills the air. The teacher claps her hands for attention and announces, "Now, children, Hogswatch is just around the corner, and you know what that means. It's time to write your letters to the Hogfather."

A ripple of excitement moves through the room, but Hannah's mind is elsewhere. As the other children chatter about toys and sweets, she picks up her pencil. She knows exactly what she's going to write. She doesn't want dolls or cakes or even new crutches. She wants Threepaws back. Because if the Hogfather can grant any wish, surely he can bring back a small, three-legged cat.

Her pencil hovers over the paper, and for the first time in her young life, Hannah feels the fragile flicker of hope. It's small, but it's there. She begins to write.

Dear Hogfather,

My name is Hannah Long. I am eight years old, and I live in Ankh-Morpork with Mrs. Cake and her very nice friends. I don't know if you've ever been to Ankh-Morpork, but it's a very busy place. It smells funny most of the time, and the streets are never really clean, but there's always something happening, and I think you'd like it if you came here. Maybe not the River Ankh, though. No one likes the River Ankh.

I've been told I have something called Morbus Insidiosus. The doctors said it's very rare, but I don't think it's rare enough because I still got it. Mrs. Cake says it's a "wasting disease," which I think is an accurate name because it wastes all my muscles, and I don't think that's very fair. The doctors told me I might live to twelve, maybe fifteen, but I'm halfway to sixteen now, so I suppose I'm middle-aged. Even so, I've lived a happy, content life and I think I'm very lucky that way.

Anyway, I'm writing to you because I've heard you can make wishes come true, and I've got a very important one. You see, I had a cat named Threepaws. He wasn't just any cat. I found him when I was very little, even littler than I am now, and he was hurt so badly that he was missing one of his legs. He was very tiny and very scared, but I gave him milk and kept him warm, and he got better. Well, mostly. He's always been missing that leg, but it never seemed to bother him. We've been best friends ever since.

Threepaws died last week. Mrs. Cake says it was his time, but I don't think that's fair either. He's always been there for me, even when I felt so tired I couldn't get out of bed. He'd curl up next to me and purr, and it made everything feel just a little bit better. Now he's gone, and I feel like I'm all alone, even though I know I'm not really. It just feels that way.

I don't want anything for Hogswatch. I don't need sweets or dolls or even new crutches. I just want Threepaws back. I know it's asking a lot, but if anyone can do it, I think it's you. If you could bring him back, even just for as long as I've got left, it would mean everything to me. I don't have a lot of time, but I think I'd be okay with that if I had him with me.

Thank you for listening, even if you can't do it. I hope you have a very nice Hogswatch.

Yours truly, Hannah Long

The scene pulls back just now, as if the universe itself were stepping back to admire the improbable Rube Goldberg machine of events it had just set into motion.

Hannah's letter, written with the careful hope only a child could muster, did indeed make it to the post office. This, in itself, was something of a miracle. The Ankh-Morpork post office had a reputation so dire that even the most optimistic citizens used the phrase "posting it" as a synonym for "giving up hope entirely."

Yet, despite the towering stacks of undelivered mail, the ill-tempered pigeons, and a sorting system that could best be described as "creative," the letter was actually processed and sent out for delivery. This was either a stroke of sheer luck or perhaps the meddling of one of the gods. The God of Chance might have nudged the letter on its way, though it's worth noting that he usually bets against himself for the thrill of it. Fate, on the other hand, doesn't meddle. He arranges, and while he might have intervened, it's hard to imagine him stooping to something as mundane as postal logistics. More likely, he placed the odds on "impossible" and let the universe sort itself out.

What made the delivery of this letter truly remarkable, however, was where it ended up. The envelope, addressed with the shaky but determined hand of a child, somehow bypassed every logical destination, skipped all the appropriate channels, and arrived at a cottage that did not appear on any map. A cottage with no address, no mailbox, and no discernible reason to receive mail at all. In fact, it had never received mail before.

That it should land in the hands of Esmerelda Weatherwax—Granny Weatherwax to most, Mistress Weatherwax to the very brave—was either fate, chance, or the universe deciding it owed someone a laugh. Though, as Granny would undoubtedly put it later, it was clearly "meant to be." And Granny Weatherwax was not someone you argued with. Not if you wanted to remain on speaking terms with your own common sense.

Morbus Insidiosus is one of those diseases that medical professionals would much rather give a name to than actually cure. The name itself is derived from morbus, meaning "disease," and insidiosus, meaning "sneaky git." It is a condition known for creeping up on its victims with all the subtlety of a pickpocket in a crowded street and sticking around like an unwanted houseguest who's just discovered the biscuit tin.
Symptoms of Morbus Insidiosus include general weakness, fatigue, and a tendency for doctors to sigh deeply and shake their heads a lot while muttering phrases like, "Best make the most of things." It's considered one of the rarer afflictions, mostly because most people who get it don't have the strength to go around advertising. The disease is entirely incurable, though plenty of quacks have tried, including one notable physician who prescribed a diet of only boiled cabbage and long walks. He lived to regret the decision when his patient beat him over the head with a crutch.
While many diseases come with a sense of urgency, Morbus Insidiosus prefers to take its time, much like a cat deciding whether it really wants to sit in your lap or just claw your arm for the fun of it. This slow inevitability has made it infamous among scholars of the Unseen University, who use it as a metaphor for the passing of time, entropy, and the inevitable realization that you've left the kettle on again.
It is also worth noting that Morbus Insidiosus doesn't discriminate—it's an equal-opportunity ruiner of lives. But, as many dying from it have desperately said, "That don't mean it's going to have the last word." It always has.