The silence after the boy’s words stretched thin.

  ?A few faces turned toward him, waiting for someone older to explain.

  ?No one did.

  ?He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t even remember when they gave them back,” he said, half to himself. “We finished the Rite, right? I remember the silver rack. The tall boy helping us. Then…” He frowned. “Then my hand was empty.”

  ?Another voice came from the benches. “I think I had mine,” a boy said uncertainly. “Maybe. I remember holding it—just for a bit. Then it was gone.”

  ?A girl near him nodded quickly, as if agreement might make the memory truer. “I noticed since the first day,” she whispered. “But I was scared to say anything. Thought maybe I lost it.”

  ?Her eyes dropped. “No one else said a word, so I thought it was just me.”

  ?Another child, smaller, hugged her knees. “No one told us anything,” she said. “I miss the orphanage.”

  ?Someone else added, softer: “I miss Sister Martel—”

  ?“Doesn’t matter,” the older boy said, cutting her off. He stood, brushing dust from his trousers as though the talk had stained them. “It’s not like we can do anything about it, so why bother?”

  ?He looked toward Aurora again, a slant of a smile not quite humor.

  ?“Maybe she ate them too.”

  ??The words landed flat and stayed there.

  ??A few children stared at him; a few stared at Aurora.

  ?She didn’t move.

  ?The book under her arm stayed closed, fingers white at the edge of it.

  ??The boy shrugged, stepped past them, and walked toward the door.

  ?His hand brushed the frame as he went inside.

  ?One by one, the others followed—no order, no talk—just the quiet sound of feet returning to the house.

  ??Aurora was last.

  ?The path ahead gleamed as if it had been polished while they stood.

  ?She crossed it and vanished through the door.

  ?

  ?

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  ?---

  ??They wandered without aim.

  ?The hallways curved in ways they hadn’t that morning.

  ?Doors half-open showed rooms already waiting, air folded smooth inside them.

  ?A corridor that should have returned to the dining room ended in a mirror tall enough to take them all.

  ?No one spoke. The air hummed faintly, the sound a throat makes when trying not to hum.

  ??“Children,” Martha’s voice came softly, not from a direction but from the air itself.

  ?“It’s time for lunch.”

  ?The servants were simply there.

  ?Hands folded napkins, chairs slid out, silver touched the table.

  ?No step had crossed the floor.

  ??The round table waited again.

  ?Fruit gleamed in halves, bread in pale curls of steam, fish shining under herbs.

  ??Martha sat among them, her dress the color of new leaves, thread at the cuffs catching light when she moved.

  ?She bowed her head.

  ?“Thanks to Borg for bread and breath, to roof and wall for keeping, and to Aunt Martha for care.”

  ??They echoed the gesture, not the words.

  ?They ate quietly.

  ?The warmth spread but left no trace of scent.

  ?The older boy sat nearest Martha.

  ?He watched her more than he ate, his mouth curving faintly when she smiled.

  ??Aurora stayed at the far side.

  ?She lifted her cup once; the water inside stayed still.

  ?When the plates were cleared, Martha rose.

  ?“Let’s walk a little,” she said. “A full belly needs sunlight to keep it honest.”

  ?

  ?

  ?---

  ?Beyond the east veranda lay an open green bordered by low white fences.

  ?Light shimmered over it as though folded in a thin film.

  ?Creatures waited there.

  ?They looked like horses remembered from a dream—manes faintly bright, coats too even, eyes deep enough to hold a reflection and nothing behind it.

  ?Some bore wings that trembled though the air was calm.

  ??The girls gasped. Even Melissa smiled.

  ?A few boys reached forward, finding courage in the quiet.

  ?Martha’s smile returned. “They like kindness,” she said. “Gentle hands, quiet hearts.”

  ??Feed waited in silver bowls.

  ?The children stepped up, palms open.

  ?The beasts leaned close and took what was offered, breath cool against their skin.

  ??Aurora stayed apart.

  ?From where she stood, the creatures moved without sound, and their shadows kept their place when the sun slipped.

  ??Martha glanced her way—only once. The smile held.

  ??The afternoon drifted on in small repetitions: brushing, feeding, laughter that left no echo.

  ?When they tired, shade appeared; when they thirsted, water waited.

  ?No one asked who had brought it.

  ?

  ?

  ?---

  ??Dinner came with the same prayer, the same measured voices.

  ?They ate slower, more sure of the taste.

  ?Martha praised them in passing, fingertips light on cloth or shoulder.

  ??When it ended, she said, “Your rooms are ready. I think you’ll like them.”

  ??The servants led them through corridors that hadn’t existed that morning.

  ?Lamps burned where the walls should have been blank.

  ?The air carried sweetness above something faint and cold.

  ??Each door opened on a single bed.

  ?A table, a basin, a chair.

  ?Drawers half-open, folded things inside.

  ?Sometimes a ribbon. Sometimes a book.

  ??Sara stood at her threshold and didn’t move.

  ?“It’s not normal,” she said.

  ??Melissa smiled, small and tired. “I like it.”

  ?

  ?

  ?---

  ??Aurora’s room waited beyond the last turn.

  ?Drawing pens lay beside blank paper, brushes lined by color jars.

  ?Light fell evenly across the desk.

  ??She sat on the floor instead, book on her knees.

  ?Lines took shape: creatures first, bright and empty; then Martha, the brim of a hat cutting her eyes from view; then the house, all windows, none closed.

  ??The air thickened once, the way it does before a word.

  ??A knock—two light taps.

  ??Aurora didn’t look up.

  ?She finished the line before lifting her head.

  ?The knock came again.

  ??She closed her book without turning away from the door.

  ??“Aurora?”

  ?Sara’s voice.

  ?