I AWOKE, not to the familiar comfort of my bed, but in the midst of a dream I'd come to know so well. But tonight, something was terribly amiss. I was expecting to see the massive Victorian house emerge from the darkness, but my voice echoed back to me. The expected towering silhouette of the house, with its ornate windows and sprawling gables, refused to appear. The darkness stretched out for miles, an impenetrable ink-black canvas, swallowing the horizon and everything else in its reach.
The usual sounds of my dream were absent too. There was no rustling of the wind through the ancient trees, no distant laughter from the house, just an ominous silence that pressed on my ears, making my heart pound in my chest. I waited, my breath shallow and ragged, for the man to appear. He was always there, but he's not around anymore, his usual punctuality betrayed by the peculiarities of this night's dream.
I began to wander aimlessly, my feet padding softly on the unseen ground beneath me. The blackness was so complete that it felt like walking on clouds, each step tentative and uncertain. Then, far off in the distance, I noticed a figure, a mere speck of gray against the obsidian backdrop. My heart leapt. Could it be him?
As I moved closer, the figure took form. My heart sank as I saw him. This was not the man I knew. This man wore a suit as black as the surroundings, tailored to his frame. His face was as pale as moonlight, marked by the absence of eyebrows, and held a blank expression, devoid of warmth or familiarity. He wore a dark fedora hat, its brim creating an eerie shadow over his eyes. In his hand, he carried a suitcase, its purpose unknown.
I approached him warily, my mind swirling with questions. Why was my dream different tonight? Why was it so unsettling? His mere presence seemed to distort the fabric of my dream, a ripple in the surreal tapestry I had come to know.
"Who are you?" I asked, my voice a mere whisper, carrying the weight of my fear. He remained silent, his face unreadable, his lips sealed by some unspoken secret. I peered into the darkness that shrouded his eyes, the hat casting a veil of mystery over them. I wanted to reach out, to touch him, and to assure myself that he was real and not just a figment of my fear. But tonight, the comfort was replaced by a chilling sense of dread. The man's haunting image, the suffocating darkness, and the deafening silence all seemed to conspire against me, turning my haven into a nightmarish landscape. As I stood there, facing the man, I realized how truly alone I was in this dream. The familiar had become strange, the comforting had turned chilling, and I was left to navigate this terrifying new reality.
The man in black then walked in my direction, his steps purposeful and confident. He was a mystery, his face obscured by the absence of eyebrows and a single, smooth expanse of skin, as if he were a marble statue brought to life. I could feel my feet itch with the need to escape, yet they were rooted to the spot, as if the ground beneath had transformed into a magnet, pulling me further into this terrifying confrontation.
His eyes were black holes against his pallid skin, consuming everything they touched, including my courage. I found myself staring into their abyss, unable to tear my gaze away as he closed the distance between us. Each step he took was a beat in the symphony of my rising panic.
The world seemed to slow as he stood before me, his towering figure casting a dark shadow on my petite frame. My chest felt like a drum, beating wildly against my ribcage in a frantic rhythm that echoed in my ears. Suddenly, his hand darted out, swift as a striking snake, gripping my neck with an icy grasp. His fingers were thin and long, like the branches of a winter tree, cold and unyielding. I could feel the metal of my necklace pressing against my skin as he tugged it. An inexplicable energy surged from it, causing it to glow with an eerie light.
The glow was so intense that it lit up my surroundings. It was the same deep, inky blackness I had seen in my dreams—a void so complete it was as if it swallowed the light itself. My breath hitched in my throat, a gasp of surprise and fear, strangled in its birth.
And then, as suddenly as he had appeared, the man was gone, swallowed by the growing darkness. The world was silent; the only sound was my racing heartbeat echoing in the emptiness. But when my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw her. A child stood a few feet away, her eyes wide and innocent. She was a mirror image of my childhood, with her hair the same shade of brown and her eyes the same color. She began to walk towards me, her tiny feet padding softly against the ground. She was a ghost of my past, a reminder of a time when life was simpler and less complicated.
Primrose.
She stopped in front of me, her eyes meeting mine with an intensity that belied her young age. I could see the fear reflected in them—the same fear that was clutching at my heart. I reached out to her, my hand trembling, but before I could touch her, she stopped, just as the man had.
I now stood facing an aberration of my own past self. There she was, looking back at me. Her gaze was piercing, almost as if she were peering into the very essence of who I was. Her tiny fingers were clutching an object that tugged at the strings of my memory. She was wearing the same necklace I am wearing. And there was something else—a photo clutched in her other hand. I was drawn to it, an inexplicable yearning pulling me forward.
I reached out, my fingers trembling as they closed around the worn edges of the photograph. The child relinquished it without a word, her gaze never leaving mine. I looked down, and there, caught in the sepia tones of a time long past, was Mamori. However, standing in the photo was not the Mamori I now see. It was an image of a much younger Mamori, small and standing in front of an imposing Victorian house. It loomed behind her, causing my heart to clench. It was eerily similar to the one in the photo I had discovered in the forbidden room of Miss Alice, the one that frequented my dreams with its silent grandeur. The rooftop was adorned with Gothic spires, and the walls were blanketed with ivy, creeping and insidious, whispering tales of a time I couldn't remember but felt hauntingly familiar.
As I stood there, lost in the well of mystery, the other me kneeled before me. She reached out, her small hand brushing against my tear-stained cheeks. I hadn't realized I was crying. The emotion was raw, a wound carved open by the ghostly memories from a past I couldn't fully grasp.
"Discover who you truly are," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Slowly, her form began to waver, like a mirage dissolving under the harsh light of the sun. I reached out, trying to grasp onto something, anything, but my fingers closed around nothing but the chill of the dream air. She was gone, leaving me alone with the echoes of my own confusion.
I was left with the photo, the necklace, and a myriad of questions that hung heavy in the air. Then, a tremor of reality tore me from the clutches of my dream, pulling me back into the world as I knew it. As my eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep, the first thing I noticed was the unusual sliver of light sneaking through the tiny gap beneath my door. The halls of the house were lit up, brightness slicing through the usual midnight darkness.
I glanced at the old grandfather clock standing guard in my room. It was well past midnight. I knew the routine of the house like the back of my hand. The lights in the halls are always snuffed out when all the gifted beings in our sanctuary are asleep. Yet, tonight, they were awake and alive, just like me.
A soft, warm weight stirred against my legs. Ophelia was waking up. Her emerald eyes blinked open, reflecting the glow from the hallway. In the dim light, her sleek, obsidian fur shimmered as if brushed with stardust. I scooped her up, her familiar purr vibrating against my chest—a comforting rhythm in the midst of this peculiar situation. I then slipped out of my room, cautiously padding down the hallway, letting the old wooden floorboards cool beneath my bare feet. The walls seemed to blush under the glow of the lights, their ancient wallpaper revealing hidden textures and shadows. Ophelia wriggled in my arms, her tail twitching with intrigue.
At the end of the hall, an open door beckoned me. The soft glow from within spilled out, painting a canvas of light and shadow on the floor. I approached, my heart pounding in my chest like a drum on a battlefield. As I peeked in, I saw Miss Alice, seated in her high-backed velvet chair, her back to me. Her dress clung to her slender frame, making her silver hair seem even more luminescent. I was just about to retreat when she turned, her eyes meeting mine. Her gaze was like a lighthouse, guiding lost sailors, and just as impossible to ignore. "Primrose," she called. Caught like a rabbit in the headlights, I stepped forward, Ophelia safe in my arms.
"Miss Alice," I said.
"Good morning," she said, a youthful smile playing on her lips. "Why are you still up?."
I looked down, my voice barely a whisper. "I'm sorry. I had a bad dream and I couldn't sleep."
"Ah," she sighed, her smile growing softer. She turned to her desk, her hand lightly brushing over the surface. My gaze followed hers, landing on a scattering of missing children's posters. The sight sent a cold shiver down my spine.
My heart stuttered as I recognized the faces on the posters. Some of them were the missing children from Perthlochry. The faces stared back at me, their smiles frozen in time. My dream dissipated, replaced by the chilling reality that there were children out there who needed help—cchildren like me, once lost and alone, their fates now unknown.
The wind was a gentle whisper against my skin as I stood beside Miss Alice. I frowned, my fingers tracing the faces of the missing children on the posters that were strewn across the antique wooden table. Each face, young and innocent, stared back at me, their eyes seeming to plead for help. My heart clenched painfully in my chest.
"What happened to them?" I asked.
Miss Alice, who had been engrossed in her gloomy thoughts, turned to face me. The usually warm glow in her eyes had dimmed, replaced by a storm of worry and fear. Her lips, typically curved in a warm smile, now formed a rigid, serious line. She was a petite woman, her face etched with worries that told tales of the years she had lived, and her eyes a clear, black color that reflected wisdom and strength. But now she appeared vulnerable, the weight of the world seemingly resting on her frail shoulders.
"They've most likely been taken by the men in black," she said.
The room seemed to drop a few degrees at her words, a chill creeping up my spine. I watched as she tenderly caressed a poster of a small boy, his eyes filled with laughter and joy. A stark contrast to the bleak reality we found ourselves in.
"I don't understand," I stammered, my mind racing with questions. "Why do you have these posters?"
She sighed, her gaze lingering on the boy's portrait. "Sebastian has been scouting the nearby towns and cities around Therslomau Isle," she explained. "He brings back these...reminders of the world outside, of the danger lurking in the shadows. He constantly surveys anywhere in his other form, looking for any strange occurrences; at least we could save any more gifted children from being taken."
My heart pounded in my chest like a frantic drum.
"But who really are these men in black?" I asked, my voice barely audible.
Miss Alice turned her gaze back to me, her eyes piercing into mine. The room was filled with a heavy silence, each tick of the grandfather clock echoing ominously. I looked into her eyes, and I saw fear and worry, but more than anything, I saw sadness.
"You'll understand soon, Primrose," she said quietly, her voice a ghostly whisper in the room. "But for now, remember this: we are in a war, a silent battle against forces we barely comprehend, and we must be ready, for our very survival is at stake."
Her words hung in the air like a prophecy of doom. The room darkened, the sun hiding behind the clouds, as if mourning the innocence lost too soon. The faces on the posters seemed to fade into the shadows, their smiles turning into silent screams. And as I stood there, a chill running down my spine, I realized that the world was much crueler than I had imagined.
Miss Alice fell silent, her usually tender eyes narrowing into a glare that held a depth of anger I hadn't seen before. The soft lines on her face twisted into a scowl, the skin darkening while her lips tightened into a thin line. The air around us grew heavy, and a shiver crawled up my spine as she recounted the tale of the men in black.
"They're not just men, you know," she began. "They're monsters. They lurk in the shadows, hunting us. Young or old, it makes no difference to them."
I felt my heart pound in my chest, like a frightened rabbit trapped within the confines of my ribs. I tried to keep my face neutral, a blank canvas, but I couldn't help the fear that crept inside me.
Miss Alice continued, her words painting a terrifying picture. "They are elusive, like smoke, disappearing before anyone can catch them. They exist in the whispers of our world, invisible to the public eye." The word hung in the air, a venomous threat. I swallowed hard, my throat dry.
"It all started when a man, consumed by greed and fear of the unknown, annihilated the first sanctuary for our kind." Miss Alice's voice wavered, and for a moment, she looked fragile, truly fragile. "He vowed to eradicate all of us, every gifted being on this planet."
I glanced at the poster again. The faces of the missing kids stared back at me, their smiles frozen in time. My eyes landed on two names: Cornelius and Ryan. Something about them stirred a strange feeling within me, like a distant memory trying to resurface. But I quickly pushed it aside. They were just names—maybe names of children who had vanished? Maybe.
I turned away from the poster, trying to shake off the unease.
"But don't worry," Miss Alice continued, as if sensing my feelings. "The world can be a daunting place, especially when you're young and vulnerable. But I want you to know something very important: you are safe here, inside our foster home and academy, just like the rest of the gifted orphans living here."
I didn't respond, though. I just stared at Miss Alice as she smiled. It wasn't her usual, happy smile. No. It was something melancholic. Ache. Uncertainty. And I wanted to ask her about the photos I uncovered yesterday. However, I don't want to get caught. I don't want to be known as the rebel here.
"I want you to listen closely," she said. I looked at her, and this time she looked less vulnerable than before. My thoughts, currently occupied by the photos I took from the forbidden room, were suddenly diverted.
"As long as you're under my care, I will do everything in my power to protect you and the rest of the orphans. This home is not just a building; it's a sanctuary—a place where you can feel loved, supported, and secure. With all my heart, dear, I've dedicated my life to ensuring the safety and well-being of children like you. You are not alone in this journey. We are a family, and I will always be here for you, guiding you through the challenges and celebrating your triumphs," Miss Alice said.
Yeah, family.
***
The sun had risen over the façade of the orphanage, hours after my talk with Miss Alice. The orphanage was back to its usual rhythm, and the gifted orphans were performing their morning chores in a synchrony that was a bit chaotic. The sharp smell of bleach was already wafting from the laundry room, where Noelle was folding piles of linens. Mamori, on the other hand, was tending the garden with Aria, whose fingertips were glowing green as she coaxed stubborn flowers into bloom.
Yet, despite the normalcy of it all, a tidal wave of doubt roiled within me. Miss Alice had left me in a state of confusion. There was something about the way she looked at me—a strange glint in her eyes—that I couldn't quite decipher. It was as if she were holding back a deluge of secrets, barely concealed beneath the surface of her polite demeanor. Ever since I stumbled upon those images in the forbidden room, the ones that were carefully hidden away in a dust-covered box, I couldn't shake off the feeling that Miss Alice wasn't telling us everything. The pictures, the letters, the strange symbols—they all pointed towards a past that she was desperately trying to keep from us. But why?
I watched as Mamori laughed at something Augustus said, her laughter ringing through the early morning air. My heart clenched. They, too, were part of this tangled web of secrets. Were they hiding something? Were they even aware of the secrets they were a part of? Especially Mamori?
I had always been perceptive, a trait that had served me well in navigating the complex dynamics of the orphanage. But now, that same perception was painting everything in shades of doubt. I was questioning my judgments, questioning the people I had grown to care about. Were my suspicions unfounded, a product of my overactive imagination? Or was I finally beginning to see the truth?
The morning sun continued to rise, casting long shadows that danced across the orphanage's stone walls. I watched as the gifted children moved in their rhythmic dance of chores, their laughter and chatter in stark contrast to the storm of thoughts brewing inside me. The world outside was bright and gleaming, but inside the confines of my mind, all I could see was a fog of uncertainty.
As I stood there, lost in my thoughts, I couldn't shake off a feeling of impending change. The world as I knew it was shifting, revealing cracks in the façade that I had taken for granted. And as much as I wanted to turn a blind eye to the unfolding revelations, I knew I couldn't. Something was stirring within the walls of the orphanage, threatening to upend the world we knew.
As I turned to look for Ophelia in our usual corner, a sense of dread washed over me. The worn-out cushion, which usually housed her sleek figure, was vacant.
"Ophelia?" My voice echoed through the empty room, bouncing off the dense walls and bare wooden floor. Nothing. No soft meow, no gentle purr. I asked each of the gifted children, but they all shook their heads, their eyes wide and concerned. My heart pounded in my chest like a drum—the rhythm of my worry.
Outside, the world was bathed in a soft, melancholic twilight. My feet crunched on the ground as I scanned the orphanage grounds. My heart leapt when I spotted a familiar black shadow beneath the towering oak tree, near Elliot's grave.
Ophelia.
Relief washed over me like the first rain of spring, dousing the fire of my worries. I was about to call out to her when I saw that she wasn't alone.
Bryce.
He was crouched at the foot of the tree, his hand gently stroking Ophelia's back. The peeking sunlight tangled in his tousled hair, turning it into a brownish halo around his head, and his brown eyes sparkled with a warm, comforting glow.
I found myself rooted to the spot, watching the scene unfold from behind the veil of a blossoming rose bush. Bryce looked... different. Here, in the solitude of the garden, his handsome features softened and relaxed. His smile was not the customary polite curve but a genuine expression of joy. It felt intrusive, like I was peering into a part of his soul he usually kept hidden. Suddenly, his laughter floated through the air, as light and carefree as the leaves rustling in the gentle evening breeze. It was a sound so rare that I couldn't help but commit it to memory, an intimate lullaby that warmed my cheeks.
Then he paused, his eyes locked on Ophelia. "You know, I wish I could spend time with her," he whispered, his voice barely reaching my ears. "I really like her."
Who's he referring to? I held my breath, the words echoing in my mind, bouncing off the walls of my incredulity.
I took a few steps back, my heart throbbing in my chest. The world around me seemed to blur as his words played like a sweet melody in my ears. I was engulfed in a whirlwind of emotions, my heart pounding like a wild drum against my ribcage. The world had shifted, and as the sun continued rising up on the horizon, I was left standing in the shadows, my heart heavy with a secret that wasn't mine to keep.
As invisible as I was, a wisp of air in the otherwise tangible world, hidden in the dappled shadows of the afternoon sun filtering through the old canopy, I still feel like I was giving off my presence. Bryce was crouched low, his fingers gently working their way through the thick fur of Ophelia.
"Just don't tell Primrose about what I told you, okay, Ophelia?" Bryce said, his voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, his eyes twinkling with a playful light. Ophelia just nudged her head against his hands, her emerald-green eyes half-closed in feline ecstasy. I could almost hear her purr from my hidden spot—a soothing, rhythmic hum that was her highest form of approval.
I inhaled deeply, the scent of damp earth and the faint sweetness of the nearby honeysuckle vine filling my nostrils. I watched as Bryce's fingers moved in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, his gaze fixated on Ophelia. He looked peaceful, a distinct contrast to his usual nonchalant demeanor. I decided to let a few seconds pass before going beside them, not wanting to intrude on this unexpected moment of vulnerability.
"Ophelia," I finally called out, my voice cutting through the tranquility like a pebble breaking the surface of a calm pond. Ophelia turned her head, her eyes brightening at the sound of my voice. With a graceful leap, she bounded towards me, her sleek form weaving between my legs in a figure-eight pattern, purring all the while.
Bryce, hearing my voice, straightened up and turned around. His eyes widened slightly in surprise before a warm smile spread across his face, making the corners of his eyes crinkle. A strange sensation coursed through me—a jolt that started somewhere in my chest and spread outwards. It was different and unfamiliar, as if my heart had suddenly learned a new rhythm.
"Primrose," he said, his voice deep and resonant. "How long have you been there?"
"Just got here," I lied smoothly, my words hanging in the air between us. I didn't want him to know that I had been a silent observer of his rare, unguarded moment.
Bryce nodded, his gaze shifting from me to the vast field that stretched out in front of us. His face morphed back into its usual poker-faced expression, his eyes reflecting the green expanse. I watched him quietly, my heart still humming to the unfamiliar rhythm. I didn't know what it meant—this strange, new sensation. But I knew that Bryce was at the center of it, and I was on the precipice of something life-altering. The world went on spinning, unaware of the tiny shifts happening in its sphere. And there we were, Bryce and I, two souls under the sprawling oak, linked by a thread of unspoken words.
Bryce's gaze then wandered over the expanse of the field, his eyes taking in the rolling green that stretched out beneath the cerulean sky. "The view is nice," he commented, his voice just audible above the whispering wind.
I inclined my head, agreeing. "It is." The emerald field was punctuated by solitary, ancient oak trees, their gnarled limbs reaching out towards the sky like skeletal fingers. The sun, a brilliant orb of molten gold, was still rising, casting long, dramatic shadows across the landscape. An air of serenity draped over us, a welcome contrast to the turmoil that had been in our lives recently.
A hush fell between us then, the only sounds being the rustling of leaves and the occasional distant chirp of birds. I found my mind drifting, seeping into the corners of Bryce's story that remained unexplored. "Bryce," I began, my voice hesitant. "How did you end up at Miss Alice's place?"
His eyes met mine, surprise flickering in their depths. He remained silent for a beat or two, his expression unreadable. "You don't have to answer," I added quickly, worried I had overstepped my boundaries.
But to my surprise, Bryce began to speak. His words were slow at first, each one carrying a weight that seemed to hang heavily in the air between us. "It's totally fine, Primrose," he said.
"Just call me Prim; it's fine," I said. He looked at me and nodded as if saying, Okay.
I looked at him, and he was now looking in the field. He was silent for a few seconds. He then combed his hair with his fingers as I sat right next to him. "I mean, my parents and I were always fighting back then. As a kid, I would hide in my room, trying to block out the sounds."
Bryce's gaze had turned distant; his eyes glossed over as he was pulled back into memories of his past. "I would hear voices," he continued, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Voices that weren't there. Because of that, people thought I was not normal."
The wind seemed to howl in sympathy, rustling the leaves in the trees above us. "One night," Bryce continued, "I caught a glimpse of my father's thoughts. I saw his memories, his guilt. He had cheated on my mother." His voice was heavy with a sadness that made me want to empathize.
"I realized then... that people were right—I wasn't normal. I had something; a curse, depending on how you look at it. Every time I used it, my body would weaken, my nose would bleed. I couldn't control it, so I stopped using it."
The sun was covered in a thick clump of clouds now, bathing the world in a golden light. Bryce's story was a distinct contrast to the peaceful scene before us. "When I was fifteen," he continued, his voice barely audible now, "men in black suits came. They first threatened my mom, but soon enough, they killed both of my parents."
I reached out, placing a comforting hand on Bryce's arm. "Miss Alice came then," he continued, his voice steadying. "She saved me and brought me to her home."
And he looked up. The world seemed to be still as Bryce finished his story. His story hung in the air between us, and I continued listening to him intently.
"Bryce," I whispered, my voice barely audible, a soft murmur against the hum of the wind. The raw honesty in his words hung heavy between us, like a tangible shroud of pain. He was a statue beside me, his face a mask of stoicism, revealing nothing. But his eyes... They were a different story. They were darkened windows into a past of torment, bearing silent witness to his father's indiscretions and his mother's suffering.
Under the canopy of the oak tree, his narrative flowed, a river of torment that left my heart aching in sympathy.
"Growing up with a father who constantly cheated on my mother wasn't easy," he confessed. "You can't imagine the nights I would lie awake, listening to them argue, the sound of my father's harsh voice echoing through the house."
The image of a young Bryce, wide-eyed and scared, hiding under his blanket while his parents' marriage crumbled was heartbreaking. I could almost see him, his small body trembling, his hands clenched in the fabric of his sheets, praying for the shouting to stop.
"But worse," he continued, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon, "was when he...when he would..." He swallowed, the words sticking in his throat like shards of glass.
I reached out, brushing my hand against his in a gesture of silent support. He didn't move, but I felt his gratitude in the minute tightening of his fingers.
"When he would beat her," he finally said, the words falling like guillotine, cutting through the silence of the air. "I'd hear her cries, you know, the sounds of his fists against her flesh, and I could do nothing."
I felt a sharp sting as I continued listening to him. How helpless he must have felt. And slowly, I came to the realization that it could be that he appeared to be stoic and nonchalant just to hide this vulnerable side of him.
"Mom tried to take me away from him once," he said, his voice cracking under the weight of the memory. "But he found us. He always found us."
As Bryce finished sharing his story, a heavy silence hung between us. I could feel the sharp edges of his past, the echoes of old wounds still raw, even all these years later. I sighed, a soft exhalation of empathy and understanding, before I turned to him, my eyes finding his in the shadow of the oak tree.
"Bryce," I began, my voice barely more than a whisper. "I may not have walked in your shoes; I may not have felt the sting of betrayal that you have, but I know... I know how hard it is to battle your own reality."
I watched him as I spoke and saw the way his eyes flickered with something akin to surprise. I guess he didn't expect me to understand. But I did. Not because I had experienced it, but because I had seen it and felt its aftershocks in my own way.
My hand reached out, hesitating for a moment before it gently rested on his. His hand was cold. He flinched slightly at my touch but didn't pull away. Instead, he turned his palm upwards, our fingers entwining in a silent promise of support.
"You overcame that part of you," I said, my voice steady, even as my heart hammered against my ribcage. The words felt heavy on my tongue, weighted with the gravity of his past. "You survived your father's abuse and his infidelity. You didn't let it define you."
I squeezed his hand, hoping to convey through that small gesture all the respect and admiration I felt for him. His eyes met mine again, their depths reflecting a war fought and won, a battle wrestled with the demons of his past. The field surrounding us seemed to fade away—the grasses, the oak tree, the birds chirping, the wind caressing our skin. It was just Bryce and me. And slowly, I felt his hand tighten around mine, his grip firm yet gentle. His eyes never left mine, their brown depths holding a mix of emotions: surprise, gratitude, and relief. A bare whisper of a smile played on his lips, a small yet significant sign that he had heard me and that he understood.
The silence between us was no longer oppressive but comforting, filled with unspoken words and shared understanding. Outside, the world continued to turn, oblivious to the profound moment happening within these four walls. But for Bryce and me, time seemed to stand still, offering us a respite from the harsh realities of life.
It was in that moment that I realized something important: that every single orphan in Miss Alice's home has their own dark past. As I sat there with Bryce, I knew I was exactly where I was meant to be. In the silence of the field, amidst the echoes of Bryce's past, I found a piece of myself I didn't know I had lost. And in giving comfort, I found my own. For a second, I forgot about the photos I snatched inside Miss Alice's forbidden room.