The room was too quiet. Just like always.
Eliara sat on the edge of her bed, her knees pulled close, fingers digging into the blanket like it was the only thing holding her together. She stared at the empty bunk across from hers—the one that still held the warmth of someone who'd left just that morning.
Another girl gone. Another promise to write. Another smile that felt too sweet, too fake.
Another goodbye that probably meant forever.
They never wrote back.
And she stopped waiting for letters long ago.
Silence pressed in—heavy and familiar—like the blanket she used when no one came to hug her. Even the walls felt tired of hearing her cry, like they were rolling their eyes behind peeling paint.
"I should be used to it by now," she whispered, her voice small and frayed. Her arms wrapped around her like a shield. "It's just part of me now."
Her eyes lingered on the mattress across from her. The indent was still there. Frances had only left a few hours ago, but already it felt like she never existed.
Eliara's voice dropped to a whisper. "The last one. Again."
The last lightbulb in the ceiling buzzed overhead, casting a dull yellow glow that made everything look sadder. The ten beds lining the walls stood too neat, too untouched. Like none of the girls had ever slept there. Like they were never real to begin with.
"I'm a good girl, right?" Her voice cracked, the words trembling out of her like something she'd been holding in for too long. "So why do people just look at me like I'm broken? Like I've got something wrong with me?"
They never said it out loud. But their eyes said enough.
Some said she had a strange aura. That being near her gave them shivers. That she made them uncomfortable without doing anything at all. She didn't know how to fix that. She didn't even know what it meant.
She bit down hard on her bottom lip, trying to swallow the lump in her throat.
But the tears came anyway.
"I've been here since I was a baby," she whispered. "No note. No name. Just dumped on the orphanage steps like trash no one wanted."
That sentence always echoed the loudest.
*Unwanted.*
It curled itself into the cracks of her heart and made a home there.
She looked around again. This place—Hope's Orphanage Home—was supposed to mean something. But it didn't. Not anymore. Maybe it never did.
There was no hope here.
Just fading memories—tiny ones, like the bracelet Mira helped her fix, or the way she used to braid her hair before bed and sing off-key lullabies.
Mira left two months ago. Said she'd write. Said she'd never forget her.
But no one ever did.
And she always forgot herself a little more each time.
Eliara let her eyes close. Tilted her head toward the ceiling. The cracks up there looked like veins—like the place itself was barely alive.
The faint ticking of the hallway clock echoed like a heartbeat.
Not hers. Not anymore.
It belonged to the silence now.
Her fingers moved under her pillow, finding the only thing that was truly hers: an old, battered diary. The cover was worn smooth, like it had been touched a thousand times by hands looking for comfort.
She pulled it close to her chest. Opened it slowly.
The pages felt colder than usual.
A loose sheet slid out and floated to the floor.
She caught it just in time.
Her breath caught in her throat.
It wasn't hers.
The handwriting was neat, tilted, unfamiliar.
Only three words were written:
**"You are not alone."**
Her hands trembled.
Her body felt like it didn't belong to her.
"What...?" she breathed.
She blinked. Looked again.
The page was gone.
Her panic rose like a scream she couldn't let out. She flipped through the whole diary. Checked under the bed. The floor. Her pockets.
Nothing.
Just her diary. Just her own words.
The silence returned—but this time it wasn't hollow.
It was alive. Listening.
Watching.
She clutched the diary tighter, pressing it hard against her chest, trying to calm the sudden pounding in her heart.
Something had changed.
Something had *woken up*.
In her mind, as clear as someone whispering right behind her, came a voice she didn't know:
**"You were not always the only one."**
The window rattled.
Not from the wind.
It sounded like a knock. Soft. Intentional.
Her breath hitched again. She stepped toward the window, her feet heavy, like the air itself didn't want her to move.
She pressed her hand to the cold glass.
Outside… the world looked off. Skewed. The trees, the road, the sky—it all looked like a dream she wasn't supposed to see.
It wasn't just dark.
It was *empty.*
Like the night had forgotten how to be night.
Then, a breath fogged the window.
And just before the mist cleared—
She saw it.
A figure. Small. Still. Standing at the front gate.
Watching her.
Not moving. Not blinking.
Just *watching.*
And then—it vanished.
No sound. No footsteps. Just gone.
Eliara stepped back slowly. Confused. Shaken. Her hand still tingled from the cold glass. But somewhere deep inside her—beneath the loneliness, beyond the numbness—something flickered.
Not fear. Not even hope.
**Recognition.**
It would come back.
Whatever *it* was—it would return.
Not to take her.
But to show her something.
Or remind her of something she had buried too deep.
She stood frozen, hand still on the glass, her breath unsteady.
The diary in her arms pulsed—gently—like it had a heartbeat of its own.
"What does it mean?" she whispered into the dark.
And then—from the empty room behind her—
A voice.
Soft. Low. And breathless.
**"It never started with you."**