Tom learned early that taking things was easy.
Keeping them was harder.
And not taking them at all—when no one would stop him—was the hardest lesson Wool's Orphanage ever offered.
The locket had been the first test.
It lay half-hidden in a girl's drawer, silver dulled by neglect, its clasp loose enough to open with a careful thumb. Tom had stood there longer than necessary, the weight of it already imagined in his palm.
Petunia had been watching.
Not from the doorway. Not openly. She never did that. She was always nearby without hovering—sitting on a windowsill, or reading at a table that happened to be close enough to matter.
She hadn't warned him.
She hadn't told him not to.
She'd only said, quietly, "If you take it, you'll keep taking things."
Tom hadn't liked that. Not because it was wrong—but because it assumed continuity. As if he were something stable enough to form patterns around.
He hadn't taken the locket.
Petunia had nodded once, as though recording a fact, and then left.
No praise.
No reward.
That was worse than punishment.
---
She had been visiting for nearly a year now.
Not every day. Not predictably. But often enough that Tom had begun to count her absence the way he counted meals—aware, alert, adjusting.
She always looked the same. Calm. Observant. Not soft, but not sharp either. She never brought gifts. Never promised anything.
She asked questions sometimes. Not about feelings—never that—but about choices.
Why he did something.
What he expected would happen next.
What he thought should have happened instead.
And then she would leave.
Always leave.
And yet—she always came back.
Tom had started to notice the mark months ago.
A faint glow on his left wrist. Barely visible unless the light hit it just right. It warmed sometimes, pulsed softly like a second heartbeat.
The first time he'd seen it react was when Petunia sat beside him on the orphanage steps, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.
The mark had brightened.
He hadn't said anything.
Neither had she.
But he watched it after that.
It glowed when she was near. Never bright enough for anyone else to notice. Just… steady. Present.
Like her.
---
The second test came with winter.
The radiators failed. Blankets were thin. Tom learned which corners of the building held the least wind and which nights were best spent awake.
When Mrs. Cole brought in the donation box, Tom saw it immediately.
Scarves. Gloves.
And one jumper.
Thick wool. Dark. Folded neatly on top, like an offering.
The box was left unattended.
Petunia was sitting on the bottom stair.
She didn't look at the box.
She didn't look at him.
She didn't do anything.
Tom waited.
This was usually the part where adults interfered. Where rules appeared suddenly, sharp and loud.
Nothing happened.
He stepped closer to the box.
Still nothing.
The silence pressed in, uncomfortable and vast.
"Are you going to stop me?" he demanded, irritation cracking through his composure.
Petunia turned her head slowly, gray eyes settling on him.
"I'm letting you decide," she said.
Tom hated that answer.
"That's not fair."
"No," she agreed. "It isn't."
She didn't explain. Didn't justify herself. Didn't rescue him from the weight of the moment.
He stared at the jumper.
He needed it. He was cold. He was older than most of the others. Smarter. More capable of keeping it hidden if he wanted to.
He took a step forward.
Petunia didn't move.
Another step.
His chest tightened.
If he took it, nothing bad would happen. Not right away. No one would punish him. He knew how this place worked.
But something else would change.
He remembered the locket. The way she'd looked at him afterward - aware.
Slowly, deliberately, Tom stepped back.
He sat down hard on the stair beside her, arms crossed tight over his chest.
"Someone else will take it," he muttered.
"Yes," Petunia said. "Probably."
"That's stupid."
She hummed beneath her breath neither a denial or an agreement.
Mrs. Cole returned minutes later. The jumper was claimed by another boy—older, coughing, hands shaking with cold.
Tom watched, jaw clenched, eyes burning.
Petunia didn't look at the jumper.
She looked at him.
Acknowledging.
The mark on his wrist warmed.
---
That night, Tom lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
Petunia hadn't helped him.
She could have. He knew she could have. She always seemed to have options—ways of smoothing things over, making outcomes easier.
She had chosen not to.
That frightened him.
And grounded him.
She didn't threaten to leave when he failed. Didn't promise to stay if he behaved.
She simply came back.
Again.
And again.
Tom flexed his fingers, feeling the faint warmth at his wrist.
Constants were dangerous. They could be taken away.
But Petunia wasn't a promise.
She was proof.
And for the first time, Tom wondered—not what he could take next—but what he might become if he kept choosing not to.