The bathroom light flickered again as Elior stood at the sink, brushing his teeth. It wasn't unusual - Cresthill Orphanage was an old building, and the lights had always been a little unreliable. Still, lately it seemed to happen more often. Ms. Halley had called in someone to look at the wiring, but whatever they did hadn't helped much.
He didn't think much of it. Flickering lights and groaning floorboards were part of Cresthill's charm - or curse, depending on who you asked. He spat into the sink and looked up at the mirror, eyes meeting his reflection. A boy stared back at him, pale-skinned and skinny, with messy black hair and eyes the color of a clear sky right before a storm. He looked tired, but not sick. Just… older, maybe. Like he'd outgrown himself overnight and hadn't caught up yet.
He leaned closer, trying to figure out what felt off. His face was the same, but something underneath wasn't. It was like standing near a wall with something humming quietly behind it. You couldn't see it, couldn't touch it, but you knew it was there. That was how he felt lately - like something deep inside him was starting to stir.
He blinked and pulled away from the mirror. No point in thinking too much about it. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe he was growing.
From down the hall, faint footsteps thudded against the floorboards. Probably one of the twins trying to sneak around before breakfast. Elior dried his face on a worn towel and stepped out into the hallway, the cool morning air brushing against his arms. The orphanage was always a little cold in the mornings, even in spring. The old windows let in more air than they should, and Ms. Halley tried to save on heating.
Cresthill wasn't a fancy place, but it had a strange charm to it. High ceilings, odd corners, and more stairs than it probably needed. Elior had lived there for as long as he could remember. It wasn't perfect, but it was home - or at least, the closest thing to one he had.
Downstairs, the smell of toast reached him. Slightly burned, but still warm. That meant Max was probably already hovering by the toaster, trying to get extra syrup without getting caught. Elior smiled a little to himself and started down the stairs.
The morning felt normal. Quiet. Familiar.
And yet, deep in his chest, something shifted. Not pain exactly, just a strange pressure, like a balloon slowly filling. It came and went so quickly he barely noticed. A breath held too long. A whisper with no voice.
Then it was gone, and the house was just a house again.
Elior slipped into the room and headed toward the long wooden table in the center, where most of the kids had already gathered. It was a mess of half-eaten toast, plastic cups of juice, and chatter bouncing from one end to the other.
Max waved him over with a slice of bread already dripping syrup onto his plate. "You're late. I was about to eat your toast for you."
"You always say that," Elior said, sliding into the chair across from him.
Max grinned. "One day I won't be joking."
Peter and Jace, the twins, were arguing over who'd stolen whose spoon like it was a life-or-death matter, while Ava sat at the far end of the table, carefully peeling an orange with slow, precise fingers. Her dark brown hair was tucked behind her ears, and she looked up briefly to nod at Elior before going back to her orange.
This table was theirs. Not officially, of course - Ms. Halley didn't assign seats - but it had become theirs through routine. Elior couldn't remember when it started, but it felt like it had always been that way. He liked it. The sense of belonging. Even when the twins were loud or Max was trying to scrape more butter from someone else's plate, it was… safe. Comfortable.
"You gonna eat that?" Max asked, pointing at Elior's toast before he'd even touched it.
"Yes."
Max leaned back with a dramatic sigh. "You've changed."
"Only since yesterday," Elior said, and the others laughed. It wasn't a big joke, but that was the kind that usually landed best at Cresthill. Nothing too serious. Nothing that reminded anyone they were here because someone else didn't want them.
Ms. Halley came in then, holding a clipboard and wearing her usual frown-that-wasn't-really-a-frown. Her expression rarely changed, but she had a way of looking at each of them like she knew exactly who'd hidden the syrup bottle last week, or who tracked mud through the upstairs hallway.
"Ten minutes," she said. "Shoes on, bags ready. No last-minute toilet emergencies."
The twins groaned in unison.
"We've never had a toilet emergency," Peter muttered.
"Yet," Jace added, then snorted juice through his nose when Peter elbowed him.
Ms. Halley didn't even blink. She turned on her heel and disappeared down the hallway.
Ava leaned forward slightly. "We have spelling tests today."
"I know," Max groaned. "I had a dream I forgot how to spell 'Wednesday'."
"You do forget how to spell Wednesday," Elior said.
"Exactly," Max said, as if that proved his point. "Even in my dreams I'm consistent."
They laughed again, not because it was hilarious, but because it was theirs. These little moments. The way the morning light hit the table, the clatter of dishes, the quiet rhythm of being together. Elior took it all in silently, the corner of his mouth turned in a smile that wasn't just polite.
The walk to school was short but loud. Peter and Jace threw pebbles at signposts and argued over who could spit farther across the sidewalk. Ava kept to herself, head down, while Max jabbered about a dream where he rode a dragon to school and still forgot to do his math homework.
Cresthill Primary wasn't far from the orphanage - a plain, square building with faded yellow bricks and a playground surrounded by a fence that always leaned a little more each year. It wasn't a bad place, not really, but like most things in Cresthill, it carried the quiet ache of being almost something better.
Inside, the halls were loud and close. Elior moved through the noise with practiced ease. He knew which teachers to smile at, which corners to avoid during passing time. He'd been here long enough to learn how to disappear when he wanted to. Most days, he did.
Their first lesson was history. Mr. Thatch had already launched into a lecture about some minor rebellion in the 1800s, chalk scratching across the board as he rambled on. The TV, mounted high in the corner of the room, had been playing a low-volume documentary on ancient settlements. Nothing special, just talking heads and old maps. But ten minutes in, as the lights dimmed slightly and the focus in the classroom waned, something shifted.
Elior blinked. A sudden tightness spread across his chest - low and slow, as if something under his ribs had decided to stretch. It wasn't sharp. Just… uncomfortable. Foreign. Like pressure building behind a wall that wasn't meant to hold anything.
At that exact moment, the television screen flickered.
The image distorted, sound warping into a thin whine. Then, abruptly, it collapsed into static.
Mr. Thatch turned, puzzled. "That's new," he muttered, stepping toward the remote.
Elior's hand drifted to his chest. That feeling - it was intensifying. Not painful, but pressing. Like something inside him is growing too large for the space it had been given.
The static buzzed louder.
He clenched his jaw, trying not to squirm in his seat. His vision blurred slightly at the edges. The sound seemed to claw at the room, bouncing between the walls and reverberating through his skull. And then - just as quickly as it had come - it was gone.
The television snapped back to the paused documentary.
And the sensation in his chest vanished with it.
Elior exhaled, slow and shaky. Sweat lined his palms. He glanced around the room, but no one else looked shaken. A few kids smirked at Mr. Thatch fumbling with the remote, but otherwise… nothing.
He sat back in his chair, pulse skipping. The odd coincidence crawled around the back of his mind. The feeling, the static. Both disappearing in sync, like two puppets dropped by the same unseen hand.
He tried to focus on the rest of the lesson, but his mind kept circling that moment. The way it had felt too precise to be random.
The rest of the day passed in quiet blurs. Math, science, recess. At lunch, Max attempted to swap his sandwich with Peter's, claiming his own bread had "spiritual mold," which earned him half a carrot and a threat from Ava about "food karma." Elior laughed, but it felt distant, like the sound came from someone else's throat.
When the final bell rang, it echoed down the hallways like a sigh of relief. Elior and Max left the building together, steps falling into a rhythm without trying.
The sun had dipped low behind the town's old rooftops, painting the cracked sidewalks in gentle shades of burnt orange. The air carried the scent of warm dust and freshly cut grass from somewhere far away.
They passed the usual group of parents waiting at the corner, clustered by the school gate - mothers leaning into strollers, fathers with car keys jangling in hand. A little girl darted from the doors and launched herself into her mother's arms. A boy behind her shouted "Dad!" and sprinted toward a man with a trimmed beard and a long grey coat. The man's face broke into a grin before he knelt to meet the boy mid-run, lifting him off the ground.
Elior watched, quiet, until Max broke the silence.
"It's weird, isn't it?"
Elior didn't look away. "What is?"
Max gestured loosely toward the scene. "That. All of that. Every day. Same spot, same kids getting picked up like they're clockwork."
He kicked a rock down the pavement and gave a half-shrug. "We've got Ms. Halley and the twins and cold cereal. They've got dinner waiting and hugs that don't need asking for."
"I don't mind Halley," Elior said, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. "Or the cereal. Or even the twins, when they're not trying to drown each other in maple syrup."
Max gave a short laugh. "I know. But still. Don't you ever wonder?"
Elior hesitated, his gaze drifting toward the spot where the last car pulled away.
He did. He always had.
He pulled in a breath, uncertain whether to speak, then said, "I asked Halley once. About where I came from."
Max's expression shifted, his steps slowing.
"She said someone found me crying near the woods. No one around. No name, no note. They called the police, searched the area. Nothing. Eventually, I just… ended up at Cresthill."
Max's brow furrowed. "You don't remember anything?"
Elior let out a small, hollow laugh. "How could I? I was one year old when it happened."
They walked quietly for a while. A breeze drifted down the street, making the paper signs taped to the lampposts flutter softly. Elior watched them sway, loose and aimless.
"I guess I just want to know why," he said, voice lower now. "Why someone would leave me like that. Or who they were. Or if they… ever meant to come back."
Max didn't answer immediately. Then, gently, he bumped his shoulder against Elior's.
"For what it's worth," he said, "they missed out on a pretty decent kid."
Elior smiled faintly. "You think so?"
"Don't make me say it twice. My pride's already hanging by a thread."
They both chuckled, but beneath the laughter sat something heavier - something shared but unspoken. A quiet truth that neither could fix but both understood.
As they reached the crest of the hill where the orphanage came into view, Elior paused. He looked back once, toward the street where the last car had disappeared. There was no one left waiting. Just fading sunlight, casting long shadows behind them.
And a strange feeling he couldn't name. Like something had shifted again - ever so slightly - but enough to notice.
He said nothing. Just turned, and followed Max back home.
Evening at Cresthill settled like an old quilt - threadbare, familiar, and a little too quiet in the corners. After dinner, the younger kids scattered toward the common room, where battered board games and a humming radiator waited. Upstairs, the older ones lingered in the dining room, scraping forks against plates in a rhythm that spoke more of habit than hunger.
Elior sat across from Ava, swirling the last bits of mashed potatoes into a cold lump on his plate. Max leaned against the windowsill, arms crossed, eyes on the dusky sky beyond. Peter and Jace were absent tonight - detention for trying to replace the school's fire drill sound with a recorded goat scream. They'd bragged about it all afternoon, only half ashamed they'd been caught.
Ms. Halley moved between tables, gathering plates, offering short smiles that didn't quite reach her eyes. She always looked tired in the evenings, like the building itself rested on her shoulders.
"Elior," she said, pausing beside him. "You've barely eaten. Feeling alright?"
He looked up quickly, caught off guard. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just not hungry."
She didn't push. Just gave a small nod and moved on. But Ava was watching him now, too.
"You've been saying that a lot lately," she said softly. "You sure you're not coming down with something?"
Max turned from the window. "You did almost fall asleep standing up yesterday. And you looked like you saw a ghost during history class today."
Elior offered a weak smile. "Wasn't a ghost. Just Mr. Thatch's comb-over."
That got a chuckle, but it didn't lift the tension. Ava rested her chin on her hand, studying him with those clear, steady eyes of hers. She was never one to be loud or dramatic - but when she looked at you like that, it was hard to lie.
Elior dropped his gaze to his plate. "I don't know," he said after a moment. "I just… feel weird lately. Like I'm always catching up to myself. Like part of me's moving faster than the rest."
Max raised a brow. "That sounds like science. And you know I don't speak science."
"It's nothing," Elior added quickly. "Not like I'm hearing voices or sprouting wings or anything."
"Shame," Max said. "Wings would be cool."
Ava smiled, but it was faint. "Let us know if it gets worse, okay?"
He nodded, and they let the moment pass.
The dining room grew quieter as the last of the plates were cleared and the other kids wandered off. Ms. Halley called out lights-out times from the hallway, her voice distant but firm.
As the three of them stood to go, Elior glanced around the room. The walls were the same dull beige. The floor creaked in the same familiar spots. Nothing had changed. But somehow, he felt like the world had leaned slightly to one side - and he was the only one trying to walk straight.
"Night, weirdos," Max said, already heading upstairs.
"Night, idiot," Ava replied automatically, and Elior smiled in spite of himself.
He followed them out of the room, the overhead lights flicking off one by one behind them.
Night in Cresthill was always a little too quiet.
The walls, heavy with dust and years, muffled the usual creaks and whispers of the old house, creating an odd, breath-held silence that settled after nightfall. Moonlight slipped through the window beside Elior's bed, tracing sharp, silvery streaks across the cold floorboards.
He lay on his side beneath the blanket, eyes open, listening to the low hum of the radiator and the distant rustle of sheets as someone turned over in another bed. His body felt heavy, but his thoughts moved too quickly, looping around moments from the day - Max's teasing, Ms. Halley's concerned look, the flicker of the TV screen, the weird hollow feeling in his chest when it happened.
Elior didn't believe in ghosts. Not really. But sometimes, lying there in the dark, he wondered if places could remember people the way people remembered places. Maybe Cresthill remembered the kids who'd come and gone before him, the ones who didn't get picked, the ones who stayed too long and eventually faded into the furniture. Would he be one of them?
He didn't remember his parents. Not their faces, not their voices. Just the word itself -parents - distant and strange, like a name in a storybook he'd never read. He hated that it meant nothing. That there was no anger, no grief, just… blankness.
He closed his eyes.
And then he was drifting.
Not falling, not flying - just moving, as if the world had let go of him and something else had caught hold. He floated through a space without sound or sky, weightless and warm, wrapped in violet light that pulsed gently around him. There was no up or down, no walls, no floor. Only the sensation of being unbound, unchained from the heaviness that clung to him when awake.
Shapes formed in the distance. Not images, exactly - more like impressions. Fragments of things he didn't recognize: a spiral of silver lines that shimmered like water, a distant humming that buzzed beneath his skin, and a flash of something sharp and bright that vanished before he could reach it.
Somewhere in the dream, he felt a presence. Vast and quiet, like a thought that hadn't yet been spoken. It didn't threaten him. It didn't speak. But it was there, and it knew him.
And then…
He gasped.
Eyes wide, breath catching in his throat, Elior sat up in bed. His heart raced, but the room was still. The dream faded like fog in sunlight, leaving behind no images, no words - only a feeling. A sense that something inside him had shifted. Not changed. Just… moved.
He lay back slowly, the sheets cool against his skin. Outside, the wind rattled faintly at the windowpane.
Sleep returned eventually, shallow and dreamless.