The sting in my palm barely registered anymore. My thoughts churned, tangled in the chaos of what had just happened.
In the sitting room, she sat me down and carefully dabbed at my wound with a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic. The sharp sting brought me back to the present. My breathing had steadied, but the unease still coiled deep in my stomach.
"What happened, honey?" Her voice was gentle, searching.
I swallowed hard. My gaze flickered to the bandage wrapped around my palm. "I don't know," I admitted. "It just… happens." Whenever I feel anxious or angry, things move on their own, without me touching them.
There was a Silence.
Then, my father, standing beside my mom, with his arms crossed. His expression was unreadable, but his voice was firm when he spoke. "How many times has this happened?"
I hesitated, then murmured, "Twice, I think. First was the night we moved here. I was angry when you and Mom told me we were leaving, and then… everything in my room just started floating. I didn't touch anything, but it all lifted into the air."
My father's eyes darted toward my mother. A flicker of something passed between them—something unspoken, something heavy.
"Why didn't you tell us?" my mother asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
I lowered my gaze. I had no answer. Maybe I was afraid of what they'd say. Maybe I was afraid of the truth.
My father let out a slow breath. "It's okay," he said at last, his tone lighter now, almost careful. "Go to your room and get dressed. I'll drive you and your mother to the new school."
I hesitated. The words burned at the tip of my tongue, a question I desperately wanted to ask. Why is this happening to me? But the weight in my father's eyes told me I wasn't ready for the answer.
So, I said nothing. Instead, I stood up and walked toward my room, feeling the unspoken words settle in my chest like a storm waiting to break.
Thirty minutes later, we arrived at Richmond College.
From the outside, the school was eerily silent. No laughter, no chatter, not even the distant echo of hurried footsteps. Just the hum of the car engine as my father pulled to a stop. My stomach twisted. Schools were supposed to be loud, filled with life. But this? It felt… silent.
I stepped out of the car hesitantly, the cool morning air brushing against my skin. The grand iron gates loomed behind us, shutting out the rest of the world. My mother walked ahead, and I forced my feet to follow.
The moment we stepped through the entrance, my breath caught in my throat.
Inside, the silence had a different kind of weight. Students moved in clusters, their uniforms crisp, their steps measured. Hundreds of them, yet not a single voice rose above a whisper. There were no playful shoves, no outbursts of laughter—only hushed conversations and watchful eyes.
A middle-aged woman approached us, her heels clicking against the polished floor. "This way," she said, her voice clipped, professional. Without another word, she turned and led us down a long hallway.
I glanced at my mother, but she kept her expression unreadable. My father, walking beside her, was unusually quiet.
As we moved through the halls, I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Eyes followed me, curious, assessing. It was as if they knew I was different before I had even spoken a word.
The woman stopped in front of a large wooden door, polished to perfection. A brass plate gleamed at eye level: Principal's Office.
She knocked once, then pushed it open. "Go in," she instructed.
I swallowed hard, my heart racing.
As we stepped inside, the scent of polished wood and faint traces of old books filled the air. Behind a grand mahogany desk sat a man in a crisp navy suit, his presence commanding yet oddly inviting.
Mr. Thompson's smile stretched wide, the kind that seemed carefully rehearsed. His sharp eyes flickered with something unreadable as they swept over my parents before settling on me.
"Mr. and Mrs Johnson, welcome," he said smoothly. "Principal Andrews informed me you'd be coming today." His gaze lingered, assessing. "And you must be Dara."
The way he said my name sent an uneasy ripple through me. His eyes—too focused, too knowing—hovered near the edge of my glasses as if trying to peel them away with his stare. My fingers twitched at my sides. Without thinking, I shifted my gaze, fixing it on the floor instead.
Something about him, about this school, felt different.
Then, my mom's voice carried a careful hopefulness. "Yes, we got a recommendation from him yesterday, and we're hoping our daughter, Dara, can be admitted here at Richmond College."
Mr. Thompson leaned back slightly, folding his hands over the desk. His expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted—like he already knew more than he let on. "Yes, of course," he said smoothly. "We don't discriminate here."
A long silence followed.
Then, my dad, who had been unusually quiet, finally lifted his gaze from the polished floor. His voice, steady but weighted, cut through the air. "You must understand—Dara is… special. Gifted. Different."
For a brief second, something unreadable flickered across the principal's face. Then, just as quickly, his smile returned, practiced and unwavering. "Oh, I do," he said, voice unwavering. "You don't have to worry about a thing."
Then, he turned to me, his gaze sharp and knowing, as if he could see past the tinted glass of my lenses, straight into the truth of me.
The air in the room felt heavier, charged with something I couldn't quite name.
Mr. Thompson's gaze settled on me, sharp and searching. "What are your special attributes?" he asked, his voice calm, deliberate.
I stiffened. "What?" The word barely left my lips before my mother cut in.
"Well, Dara is just discovering her powers," she said smoothly, her tone light, almost casual—too casual.
Mr. Thompson shifted his attention to her, one brow lifting slightly. "Is that so, Mrs? Johnson?"
"Yes," my father interjected, his voice firmer. "We haven't… shown her the path yet. And I hope you respect that. She's here to learn, just like any other student. Nothing more."
The principal leaned back, lacing his fingers together on his desk. "Mr. Johnson, this school provides both. We have other special students like her. But if you prefer us not to interfere, that's entirely up to you."
A tense silence filled the space.
My dad exhaled slowly, then turned to me. "Dara. Remove your glasses."
My fingers hesitated at the frames, my pulse hammering. I could feel Mr. Thompson's eyes on me, expectant. Waiting.
The moment I slipped off my glasses, Mr. Thompson's breath hitched.