Morning arrived too soon, bringing with it a peculiar sense of unease. I woke to find my sheets damp with sweat despite the chill that had settled into my bones. The pendant from the night before now lay on my nightstand, looking like nothing more than ordinary tarnished silver. Had I truly imagined the way it seemed to breathe?
Little Mina burst through my door with her usual enthusiasm, shattering my contemplation. "Kira! Look!" She held up the doll I had finished stitching for her, and I noticed something that sent a chill down my spine. Without realizing it, I had embroidered the same symbols from the parchment along the hem of the doll's dress.
"It's beautiful," Mina said, tracing the marks with her finger. "They look like the pictures in Sister Emilia's old books. The ones she keeps locked away."
Sister Emilia's books. Why had I never wondered what those leather-bound volumes contained? Why had none of us ever asked?
Downstairs, the familiar routine of breakfast preparation felt like sleepwalking. My hands moved automatically, setting plates, folding napkins, arranging cutlery, but my mind was elsewhere, processing the impossible truth that my entire life had been built on careful omissions.
The other children moved around me like shadows, their conversations muffled and distant. Even the sisters seemed different this morning, sneaking glances at me when they thought I wasn't looking. How long had they known? How long had they been waiting?
I was so lost in thought that I completely lost track of time. The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed eight-thirty, and I realized with a jolt that I was already late for first period.
Meadow High School had always felt like a performance for which I had never received the script. Today, that feeling intensified tenfold. Students moved through the hallways with purpose while I drifted like a ghost, invisible and directionless.
Annie had saved my usual seat in Mrs. Hendricks' English class, but when I failed to show up, she gave it to Jake Martinez, who was now sprawled across the desk like he owned it. I slipped in through the back door just as Mrs. Hendricks was wrapping up her introduction.
"…and so, for your final project this semester, you'll be exploring the concept of identity. Not just who you are, but where you come from: your heritage, your family history, the forces that shaped you into the person you are today."
The universe, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor.
Mrs. Hendricks' eyes found mine across the room. "Miss Kira, since you've joined us, perhaps you'd like to share your initial thoughts on the project?"
Twenty-three pairs of eyes turned toward me, and I felt my birthmark begin to warm. "I… I don't know much about my background," I stammered.
"Nonsense," Mrs. Hendricks said with feigned cheer. "Everyone has a story. Sometimes we just need to dig a little deeper to find it."
If only you knew how deep, I thought, as my fingers unconsciously moved to the pendant hidden beneath my collar.
The cafeteria buzzed with its usual chaos, but today I felt as if I were watching it all from underwater. Annie had claimed our usual table, but I could barely focus on her chatter about weekend plans and homework assignments.
That's when I spotted her, Layla, the new girl. She navigated the lunch line with deliberate precision, clearly intent on not drawing attention to herself. Petite and confident, she had striking green eyes and dark hair that absorbed light rather than reflected it. There was something about her that made my birthmark tingle with a strong sense of recognition. She never made it to an empty table. Zoey Blackwood appeared like a predator sensing weakness. The mayor's daughter had built her entire identity on the belief that power was inherited, not earned, and she wielded her family's influence like a weapon.
"Excuse me," Zoey said, her voice dripping with false politeness. "I don't think we've been properly introduced."
Layla looked up with cautious hope. "I'm Layla. I just transferred here."
"How nice," Zoey replied firmly, her tone sharp as she fixed her gaze on Layla. "I can tell you're eager to fit in. But here's the deal about our school: we have a particular ecosystem, and new predators…" With a decisive motion, she knocked Layla's tray from her hands, sending food scattering across the floor. "…need to understand their place."
The cafeteria fell silent. This was theater, and we were all unwilling audience members.
But something inside me snapped. I stood up so suddenly that my chair toppled over, the crash ringing through the silent room like a gunshot. "Leave her alone," I declared firmly.
Zoey's smile widened, like she had been waiting for this. "Oh, look. The little orphan has found her voice. How adorable."
The word 'orphan' hit me like a physical blow, not because it hurt, but because it was completely wrong. I wasn't an orphan. I was something entirely different, someone who had been placed at St. Agatha's for reasons I was just starting to grasp.
"You know what your problem is, Zoey?" I strode toward her, feeling an ancient and powerful force building in my chest with every step. "You think power comes from who your parents are. But real power…"
I was close enough to see the flicker of fear in her eyes, and I could sense that her expensive perfume couldn't quite cover the stench of her terror.
"Real power is about what you are."
The slap came before I could stop myself. The sound rang through the cafeteria like lightning, and for a moment, I could have sworn I saw actual sparks fly from my fingertips.
Zoey staggered backward, her hand pressed to her cheek, eyes wide with shock. "You… you'll pay for this. My father will—"
"Your father," I interrupted, my voice carrying a strange harmonic that made the windows rattle, "has no power where I'm going."
The words flowed out of me without conscious thought, but as soon as I said them, I knew they were true. A teacher finally stepped in, but as Zoey was led away, her parting words sent a chill down my spine:
"This isn't over, freak. I know what you are."