Chapter 7 – Secrets and Shadows
Night had a special kind of stillness at St. Theresia.
After dinner, after the children had brushed their teeth and changed into their pajamas, after the last mug of warm milk had been passed around, the orphanage seemed to exhale—soft, warm, and tired. The lights dimmed, the hallways hushed, and Sister Mary's voice filled the children's dorm with quiet magic.
Tonight, she held a worn old book in her hands. Its pages had yellowed with time, and the cover had long since lost its title. But Thomas recognized the story from the pictures alone—Snow White.
He sat cross-legged at the foot of her chair, a thick wool blanket around his shoulders. Daisy and Johnny were already curled up in their beds nearby, eyes wide and eager as Sister Mary began to read aloud.
"Once upon a time, in a faraway kingdom…"
Her voice danced gently through the tale—through mirrors and poisoned apples, wicked queens and forest cottages.
Thomas listened in silence.
The story was simple, familiar, and—at least to him—deeply inaccurate.
A witch as the villain again.
A magical woman, filled with vanity and malice, casting spells for selfish gain.
It was always the same.
As Sister Mary closed the book and offered her usual warm, "Goodnight, little ones," Thomas raised his hand slightly.
"Sister Mary," he said quietly.
She looked down at him with a gentle smile. "Yes, dear?"
His brows furrowed. "Are witches really that bad? I mean… are they real?"
The question hung in the air.
Sister Mary tilted her head slightly, reading the seriousness in his tone. She had long noticed how different Thomas was from the others. Thoughtful. Mature. Sometimes unnervingly so.
She placed the book aside and answered carefully.
"No, Thomas. Witches aren't real. Not like the ones in those stories."
He frowned. "But… what if they were?"
She chuckled lightly. "Then I suppose we'd still be fine. We have our own kind of magic, don't we? Electricity, medicine, airplanes, books. That's the magic we believe in—science and kindness."
Thomas looked down at his blanket. "But if there were witches… would people think they're bad?"
Sister Mary paused, then reached out and gently brushed his messy hair back.
"I don't know, sweetheart. But I do know this—you are safe here. No witches, no bad people, no one will hurt you. I promise."
He nodded quietly.
She smiled again, kissed his forehead, and moved on to tuck in the others.
But Thomas didn't sleep.
He stared at the ceiling for a long time, thoughts twisting like smoke.
So witches weren't real?
At least, that's what most people believed.
But he knew better.
He was one.
Not in the storybook sense. Not an evil crone with a bubbling cauldron.
But a magician. A space-walker.
Someone who could blink from one place to another.
So what would people think of him if they found out?
He clenched the blanket tighter around himself.
He didn't want to find out.
The next day, he began scouting.
He couldn't risk training where others might see. If someone caught him vanishing into thin air, word would spread—and if Sister Mary's reaction to Snow White was anything to go by, they'd think he was dangerous. Or broken. Or evil.
So, he walked the edges of the orphanage grounds.
Behind the hedges.
Past the overgrown garden.
Behind the laundry line.
And that was when he saw it.
An old storage shed. Stone and wood, half-covered in ivy. Unlike the other buildings, this one was locked tight.
Its door was solid oak with an iron latch, rusted with age. A small keyhole glinted just above the handle, and the windows—if they ever existed—had long since been boarded up.
Curious, Thomas tried the handle. It didn't budge.
He peeked through the keyhole, pressing one eye close. Dust. Cobwebs. Shelves. A broken chair. But it was big enough. Quiet enough.
Perfect.
Now came the hard part.
He took three steps back and stared at the door.
Focus.
He tried to recall the feeling of Blink—his awareness narrowing to the point in space he wanted to reach. But this time, he couldn't see into the room. Only through a pinhole.
He tried once.
Nothing.
Twice.
Still outside.
He growled softly in frustration.
Then, he dropped to his knees and peered through the keyhole again, staying there for a minute.
This time, he studied the destination carefully.
A spot on the dusty floor. A torn rag in the corner. A spider crawling along the back wall.
There.
He stood again. Closed his eyes. Breathed in.
The image burned into his mind.
He reached—mentally—toward that exact patch of ground.
And then—Blink.
He was inside.
Dust exploded around him as his feet landed on the ancient wooden floor.
He coughed once, blinked, and then—grinned.
"Yes."
The room was dark, but dry. The air was stale, but undisturbed. No one had been here for years.
He was alone.
And he had found his sanctuary.
Over the next week, Thomas used the abandoned shed as his personal training ground.
It was perfect.
No eyes. No windows. Just shadows, wood, and time.
He swept the floor with an old broom handle he found lying broken in the corner. He stacked crates to mark distances. He carved chalk lines into the planks to test precision.
Inside this forgotten room, Thomas became something else.
Not an orphan.
Not a child.
Not even human.
He was a magician. A wielder of space.
He practiced short jumps between two spots.
Then longer ones, corner to corner.
He drew a circle and tried to Blink only within it.
He closed his eyes and tried to Blink based on memory alone. That one often failed—but he was learning.
What mattered most was intent. Precision. Clarity.
And with every successful Blink, his confidence grew.
But so did his caution.
He always reappeared just before dinner.
He never came here at night.
And he never mentioned the shed.
Some things were better kept in shadows.
Especially when you didn't know if the world was ready to see them.