The book smelled like old paper and dust.
I turned it over in my hands. The cover was stiff and plain, like it had been wrapped to hide something. The word "TRUTH" stared at me like a dare.
My hands were shaking a little.
Because I had never been given something Mama didn't explain.
Even my socks came with instructions.
I peeled away the brown wrapping carefully, like I was opening a present I wasn't supposed to get. The paper tore with a whisper.
Underneath…
No title. No author. Just pages, yellowed at the edges, filled with uneven handwriting. Some letters were crooked. Some words were crossed out.
It didn't look like a book from the library.
It looked like a diary.
I flipped to the first page.
"They brought him here three weeks ago. He hasn't spoken a word."
My heart thumped.
I turned to the next page.
"They call him Lucas. I don't think that's his real name."
My hands began to sweat.
I kept reading.
"He screams at night. The others don't want to hear it. But I sit by the door. I think he knows I'm there."
My vision blurred.
"They said his family died in a fire. But there's no record of that. Just a boy. Just a room. Just silence."
I slammed the book shut.
My fingers were trembling.
The name. My name.
Lucas.
But who wrote this?
Who are "they"?Who are the "others"?
And… why does it sound like I was taken from somewhere?
That night, Mama didn't come.
No footsteps.
No voice.
No dinner.
Just the wind outside, whistling against the round window like a song I didn't know the words to anymore.
I sat on the wooden floor, the book in my lap.
And I asked the tiger on the wall:
"If I'm not Lucas…then who am I?"