The orphanage was ancient, its walls heavy with centuries of secrets and whispered stories. Cracks in the stone seemed to hide shadows that moved when no one was watching, and every creak of the floorboards told tales of forgotten footsteps. At least, that’s what Nora believed.

For now, she was scrubbing the same worn floors she had scrubbed a hundred times before, the scent of old stone and wax filling her senses.The work was monotonous, but comforting in its predictability. It gave her mind space to wander—to the attic full of secrets she wasn’t allowed to peek into, the locked rooms that probably contained either treasure or some very grumpy ghosts, and the strange little noises that seemed to follow her down empty halls. Magic, obviously, was hiding somewhere in these corners, probably rolling its eyes at her for not noticing sooner. Or maybe it was just the hopeful ramblings of an orphan who figured life didn’t have to be all chores, rules, and disappointments.After all, if the universe insisted on stone walls and endless scrubbing, she might as well pretend there were dragons hiding in the corners, ready to entertain her.

Her imagination also supplied villains closer to home. Sister Imelda, the warden, with her sharp voice and unbending rules, could very well be a demon in disguise, Nora decided. Maybe she didn’t drink blood like in the stories, but she had a remarkable talent for wearing children down with endless chores and impossible rules—until, Nora imagined, they finally surrendered their spirits, one exhausted soul at a time.

“You’re still at it?” Aine’s voice floated from the doorway, soft and teasing. Sunlight caught in her golden curls, turning them into a halo she absolutely did not deserve. Her smile — wide and annoyingly perfect — was almost blinding.

Aine, my dearest comrade in this hell.

The only person in this entire crumbling orphanage capable of making scrubbing floors feel like a cosmic joke instead of a punishment. She leaned against the frame with that effortless grace she didn’t even know she had, watching Nora with amused pity.

“Do you actually enjoy this,” she continued, eyebrow raised, “or are you trying to polish your soul along with the floors?”

“Very funny,” Nora replied, rolling her eyes. “I just like to make it look like I’m working hard. It keeps Imelda off my back… mostly.”

Aine laughed, stepping closer. “Right. Because nothing says ‘innocent orphan’ like scrubbing floors with that much dedication.”

“Exactly,” Nora said, smirking. “Now, come on. We need to execute Operation Library Escape before Imelda notices. She’s definitely in a soul-collecting mood today.”

“Oh?” Aine’s eyes sparkled. “Do tell. I hope it doesn’t involve actual danger this time. Last week’s ‘daring mission’ ended with you almost tripping over the bucket.”

“That was strategy,” Nora said, wagging a finger. “And today’s mission is much safer. We sneak out, head to the library, and work on the plan. Our plan.”

Aine leaned against the wall, smiling softly. “Right, the plan. Step one: avoid chores. Step two: conquer the world… or at least the bookshelves.”

“Exactly,” Nora said. “And if Imelda catches us, we tell her we’re conducting research. Very important research. For… science.”She can’t argue with science.”

“Science,” Aine echoed, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous. But I’m in. Let’s go before she changes her mind about harvesting our souls for chores.”

They shared a quick grin, ducked around the corner, and silently celebrated their small rebellion. The orphanage was old and strict, but with each other, it felt less like rules and more like the stage for their secret little adventures.

“Ready?” Aine whispered, eyes sparkling. “The clock’s ticking.”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Nora replied, a grin tugging at her lips. “We’ve got a week. Seven days. That’s it. Seven days to finish the plan, memorize every map, and figure out exactly where we’re going when we finally leave this place.”

Aine’s lips pressed into a thin line, excitement and nerves mingling. “Seven days… it’s surreal. I can’t believe we’re actually doing it. We’ve waited for this… forever.”

Nora nodded, heart thudding. “Forever. Every endless chore, every rule, every shadowed hallway… we’ve dreamed about this moment since we can remember . And now it’s here. A week. Just one week until we step out on our own.”

Aine’s eyes brightened, hope shining in them. “I’ve imagined it a thousand times. The wind on my face, streets we’ve never walked, mountains we’ve only seen on maps… it’s almost too much to believe.”

Nora grinned, rolling her shoulders. “Believe it. And we need to hurry. Imelda’s been unusually sharp lately. She notices things… things like two girls disappearing into the library instead of polishing floors.”

Aine laughed softly. “Soul-harvesting mood, maybe?”

“Definitely. And we can’t give her the satisfaction,” Nora said. “Every map we can get, every atlas, every book of towns, mountains, coasts… it all has to be ours. We can’t leave anything to chance. This is our last week of being trapped in this stone cage.”

They slipped through the library door, the familiar smell of old pages and leather-bound spines wrapping around them. Sunlight fell in golden shafts, dust motes dancing like tiny stars. Nora dropped onto the floor, spreading out the maps she had collected over months of secret planning.

“Look,” she said, pointing to a narrow coastline in a hand-drawn map. “If we start here, we can follow the coast south and go to the harbour and take ship, then take the train west and… oh! There’s a city with a library older than this orphanage. We have to go there.”

Aine traced her finger over the map, her soft smile focused. “And maybe a village with a lake on the way. I want to see the sunrise over water at least once before we pick our home.”

“You’ll get your lake,” Nora said, grinning. “But don’t think I’m giving up mountains for your lake just yet.”

They settled among the maps and books, flipping pages, comparing atlases, scribbling notes, whispering strategies. Every detail mattered. Towns, distances, transportation, food sources—everything had to be perfect.

“This is insane,” Aine said, a small laugh escaping her. “Incredible, but insane. Seven days and we’ll have the whole world mapped?”

“We’ll do it,” Nora said firmly. “We’ve been waiting for this our whole lives. This is our freedom week. We leave in seven days, and nothing—nothing—can hold us back. No chores, no Imelda, no stone walls. Just us and the world.”

Aine reached over, brushing a loose strand of hair from Nora’s face. “Promise me one thing?”

“Anything,” Nora said, meeting her gaze.

“That we’ll see it together. Every strange city, every hidden village, every mountain and lake… together.”

Nora smiled softly. “Together. Always.”

And for a moment, surrounded by golden light and the scent of ancient paper, the orphanage faded away. Their freedom wasn’t just coming—it was almost here. Every map they traced, every plan they whispered, every laugh shared over tiny discoveries—this was the life they had imagined for years, and now it was within reach.

The world was waiting, and they were ready.

The attic was quiet that afternoon, sunlight slipping through the windows in thin golden sheets that stirred the dust. Nora sat cross-legged on the floor, a rag tossed carelessly beside her, grateful for a short break from polishing the rails downstairs. Across from her, Aine lay on her back, idly nudging a pebble with the tip of her shoe.

“Three more kids got adopted today,” Aine said softly, almost as if stating a fact about the weather.

Nora made a noncommittal hum. Not surprising. Children were always leaving our orphanage. Some came back with horror stories. Some never came back at all. The not-knowing was worse.

Aine rolled onto her side, golden hair fanning across her shoulder. “Do you ever feel bad… like maybe we’re just being stubborn?”

“We’re not stubborn,” Nora said, picking at a splinter in the floor. “We’re realistic.”

Aine gave a tiny smile — the kind that belonged to someone still hoping the world could be better, even after seeing enough to know it often wasn’t. “Some families are kind.”

“And some aren’t,” Nora countered. “And adoption means two separate homes — guaranteed.”

Aine didn’t argue. She didn’t need to. They’d heard enough from the kids who came back, and enough from the ones whose letters slowly stopped arriving.

It wasn’t that Nora and Aine were unwanted. They were polite enough, bright enough, social enough. The problem was simple: going with different families would split them apart. And neither of them was willing to gamble on the world alone.

Aine sat up and dusted her skirt. “Eighteen’s not that far away.”

Nora shrugged, hiding a spark of anticipation she didn’t bother denying. “We’ll leave then. No papers, no signatures, no being separated.”

“And we’ll go anywhere we want,” Aine added, eyes bright with quiet excitement. “Not because we were chosen — but because we choose ourselves.”

That was the difference. They weren’t rejecting adoption out of fear. They rejected it because belonging to strangers had never appealed to either of them.

Nora unfolded the map they’d been building for months — a patchwork of stolen scraps, half-remembered geography, and whispered rumors. Aine leaned over her shoulder, pointing to a coastline drawn just days ago.

“Start here?” she asked.

Nora considered it. “Sure. A fishing village isn’t the worst way to meet the outside world.”

“And maybe it’ll be nice,” Aine said lightly, the kind of optimism that wasn’t foolish, just… hopeful.

Nora snorted softly. “If it’s horrible, we’ll go somewhere else.”

“Exactly!” Aine said, pleased. “No being stuck.”

The attic door groaned open downstairs, and Sister Imelda’s sharp voice called for evening chores.

“Girls! Get a move on before I come up there myself!”

Aine flinched slightly—not from fear, just from having to interrupt their daydreaming. Nora rolled her eyes, but a small smirk tugged at her lips.

They descended the stairs, their skirts brushing the worn wood, and completed the usual chores in silence. After the last dish was scrubbed and polished, they finally returned to the attic, where the golden light had long since faded and shadows pooled in the corners.

They weren’t desperate to escape the orphanage out of terror. They simply didn’t want their futures dictated by other people.

The world outside might be cruel. It might be kind. Most likely, it would be both.

Either way — they would face it on their own terms.

Not as lost children.

As young women choosing their own lives.

And tonight they prepare for their Great adventure ahead,Nora pulled out the few things they had collected over months: scraps of metal, old needles, bits of string, and a small dagger she’d hidden under her mattress. “If we’re serious about leaving,” she said, “we need tools. Anything that could help us survive out there. Weapons, locks, rope… even something to barter if we have to.”

Aine rummaged through the attic corners, finding old tin cans, shards of glass, a rusted pair of scissors. “Not much,” she said, shrugging. “But every little bit counts.”

They sorted the items carefully, imagining how each could be useful in the streets, at the market, on a train, or by the harbor. “A needle can fix clothes… or… hurt someone if we need it,” Nora said grimly. “These scraps could turn into traps or signals. Every scrap matters.”

The attic was still, the shadows pooling in the corners like liquid ink. Nora and Aine crouched over their scattered tools and scraps — a dagger, shards of glass, rusted scissors, string, and tin cans. Every small thing might help them survive once they were outside.

A faint creak from below froze them. Footsteps—soft, deliberate—heavy.

Curiosity pricked at them. Slowly, Nora and Aine crept to the narrow hallway, inching towards the outside garden. Shadows moved ,Two figures: Sister Imelda and one of the elders, voices hushed but clear.

“…the next ones,” a smooth, low voice said, “are those two girls from the attic.”

Nora’s stomach sank. Aine’s fingers clutched hers.

“They’re beautiful, clever enough, the voice continued, almost like reassurance. “Noble households will pay a heavy price. They can be… useful. At least as mistresses, if not more.”

Then another voice, softer but filled with guilt, trembled through the candle lit darkness: “Nora and Aine? They’re barely seventeen… and they have plans. They dream of leaving. They don’t deserve this…”

It was Sister Imelda. Her tone was different — quieter, gentler, almost human. Not like the harsh, calculating voice of the elder. The girls exchanged a glance. She doesn’t sound like a soul-harvesting demon today… she sounds more humane compared to the harsh callous words of the elder.

The elder’s voice came again, smooth, almost consoling, cruel in its calmness. “Don’t worry, Sister Imelda. For the pretty ones, it’s… good. They’re cared for. They’ll serve noble households. Mistresses, companions… a life they might even find tolerable if they accept it. And the others? The ones not deemed perfect? Sold. Slaves. Put to work for far greater purposes than they’ll ever imagine.”

A quiet pause. Imelda didn’t reply — she wouldn’t. But the slightest catch in her breath, the gentle hesitation in her words, the softening of her otherwise strict features — all betrayed her conflict. She couldn’t intervene. She couldn’t argue. Yet somehow, even through the rules and cruel system, she carried a thread of care for these girls.

Aine’s fingers pressed to her mouth. Nora’s hand clenched the dagger tighter. Every word pierced like a knife.

Nora’s jaw tightened. She’d heard rumors before, but this—hearing exactly what awaited girls who stayed—made her chest ache. “We can’t wait until eighteen,” she whispered. “If we do, it’s too late. We have to go—before they decide for us.”

“They expect them before this week,” the elder said casually, as if discussing a commodity. “The good-looking ones are claimed first. The rest… sold, traded, or kept as servants. No exceptions.

The faint sound of Imelda’s retreating footsteps carried a quiet weight of guilt. The girls felt it — the difference between her and the elder. Sister Imelda was powerless, but she sympathized. She wasn’t a demon today.

Nora’s jaw tightened. “We were never waiting for eighteen,” she whispered. “We were being delivered.”

Aine’s eyes widened. “They’ve already chosen for us…”

“No,” Nora said, voice low but sharp as steel. “They’ve chosen what they want. Not our lives. Not our freedom.”

Her gaze swept over the scattered tools, the map, the small hidden dagger. Every scrap suddenly became essential.

“We leave,” Nora said, her voice hard, fierce. “Tonight, tomorrow—doesn’t matter. Before they can touch us. Before anyone can decide for us.”

Aine nodded, determination blazing in her eyes. “Every scrap, every hidden thing… it’s survival now.”

The attic was quiet again. Shadows pooled in corners, waiting. Somewhere, unseen, a presence lingered — patient, calculating, watching.

But for the first time, the girls weren’t afraid. Their eyes were fixed on the map, the routes, the alleys. Every hidden path, every tool, every scrap suddenly mattered more than ever.

Tonight, the attic wasn’t just a refuge. It was a war room.

Their escape had just become urgent — not for adventure, but for survival.

​

Aine hummed softly in the dining hall, scrubbing the floors in exaggerated circles, eyes locked on the ground with theatrical dedication. If awards existed for Most Innocent Chore-Performing Soul, she would be winning them all, framed certificates and everything.

They had come up with this system three nights ago: if both of them disappeared from chores, someone would notice and they would get interrogated by Sister Imelda and her terrifying eyebrows. And Nora had many talents—but being yelled at was not something she was willing to add to her list. Their time was too precious, too limited, too everything for that.

Nora pressed herself against the shadowed corridor wall, heart pounding, and slipped toward the old, forgotten door she’d spotted earlier. The hinges were rusted, the latch crooked, the wood dark and grimy—basically the architectural equivalent of “turn back now or die in a horror movie.”

It opened with ridiculous ease.

A puff of stale air hit her in the face. The smell was an iconic blend of dust, old paper, things-that-should-be-dead, and maybe disappointment.

The room was small, suffocated in darkness, corners draped in cobwebs. Shelves sagged under the weight of boxes long abandoned. Whoever had used this room last clearly didn’t care about hygiene, order, or humans. Possibly also not life.

Nora wrinkled her nose. Charming.

She pulled open drawers and cracked lids on wooden chests, fingers skipping over anything too broken or too suspicious. It didn’t take long before her eyes glimmered at a tarnished silver brooch shaped like a leaf; a dented little bracelet missing most beads; a small metal box that rattled with coins—probably worthless ones, but coins were coins.

She stuffed the finds into her bag, heart fluttering with a jittery blend of adrenaline and satisfaction. This was something.Not enough to run away yet, not enough for a whole new life—but it was a start. And starts mattered.

Aine would be delighted—she always loved things that sparkled, even the cheap stuff, even the broken stuff. The girl could find magic in lint if it glittered the right way.

Nora scanned the room again.That’s when she saw it.

On the floor, half wedged behind a stack of brittle papers, was a leather-bound book. Not dusty like the rest; the leather cover looked… tended by time, not forgotten by it. The edges were worn, symbols curling across the surface like vines or smoke — whatever language it was, it didn’t look friendly.

She paused.This was not what they needed.This would not help them escape.This was how characters in horror stories ended up possessed, or cursed, or eaten.

Her brain whispered leave it.Her curiosity whispered take it.

Sadly, curiosity was way louder.

With a scowl at herself for being predictable and weak to mysteries, she grabbed the book and shoved it into her bag with the trinkets.

“Well,” she muttered under her breath, “this will either fund our escape or doom us. Either way, sounds productive.”

Bag secured, she crept back toward the hall. Aine’s humming floated to her like a lifeline—calm, steady, comforting. A soundtrack for petty thievery, panic, and poor decision-making.

Nora slipped beside her and resumed scrubbing with the most innocent expression she could assemble.

“Careful with the floor,” Nora murmured, just loud enough for Aine to hear. “Wouldn’t want anyone to suspect someone’s sneaking around. Also, wouldn’t want your amazing choreography to go unappreciated.”

Aine glanced over with a tiny, amused smile, one eyebrow raised. “I’ve got this side covered. Nobody’s looking.”

Nora smirked. “Good. I love when my brilliant plans come with a personal cheer squad.”

Aine just shook her head affectionately and kept scrubbing, while Nora tugged her bag closer like it was a newborn child or a bomb — because honestly, it was a little bit of both. Quiet victories were the best kind.

—

Later That Night

The sleeping quarters were silent. Dozens of girls breathed steadily across creaky beds, moonlight tracing silver bars along the floor like prison stripes.

Nora lay staring at the ceiling, wide awake, exhaustion nowhere close to winning.

Her mind had been spinning ever since they decided to escape — swirling with plans and doubts and all the ways things could go wrong.

She knew the world outside wasn’t made of sunshine and freedom and cake. She knew they might fail. She knew they might starve, or struggle, or end up right back here again under Sister Imelda’s rigid gaze and careful affection nobody was allowed to acknowledge or even worse get sold.

Aine slept peacefully beside her — curled up like a cat, hair glowing pale in the moonlight, soft features unbothered by anything. Nora wasn’t jealous, exactly — but she wished she could borrow some of that simplicity, that ability to sleep deeply even when life was awful.

Nora sighed and turned on her side.

A glimmer flashed — faint, a momentary shimmer from inside her bag.

Her stomach dropped.

The book.

Her curiosity wasn’t even polite enough to wait a full three seconds. She reached into the bag, pulled the leather-bound thing out, and sat cross-legged on the mattress.

Up close, it looked older than anything she had ever seen — and somehow not fragile. The symbols on the cover almost seemed to shift in the moonlight. Nora blinked, rubbed her eyes. No, definitely tired. Definitely overthinking.

She opened it.

The pages were filled with looping handwriting and strange illustrations. Not confession notes, not orphanage secrets. A story. A fiction novel about demons. Of course. She risked her entire life for a stupid fantasy book.

She considered closing it right then — but no, she already risked her soul, might as well see what the plot was before dying.

The heroine appeared first — blonde, bright-hearted, always smiling, too compassionate for her own good.

Nora’s eyes narrowed.

Well that sounds familiar.

She kept reading.

Then came the love interest — a tall, enigmatic, dangerously handsome man with eyes that “held storms” (dramatic much?), name revealed a few chapters later:

Ezra.

A sharp chill stabbed her spine.

The name landed in her chest like it had always belonged there, like a memory she didn’t remember having. Her pulse stuttered. A warning, or déjà vu, or something else entirely.

Her tongue felt dry.

Why did that name feel familiar? Why did it feel like something inside her responded to it?

She turned the page.

Then she found herself.

A black-haired best friend. Loyal. Sharp-tongued. Protective.

Also hopelessly in love with the same man.

Naturally. Because why not add emotional chaos?

Nora stared.

“I am not jealous,” she whispered to the book like it had personally insulted her. “You don’t even know me.”

One more page.

Her character — the version of her in the book — becomes consumed by jealousy, harms the blonde heroine, and is executed by Ezra within the first fifty pages.

That was it.

She died before the story even began.

Nora blinked. Then blinked again.

Then inhaled slowly through her nose.

“Oh. Wow. Amazing. Love that for me.” She whispered venomously. “Killed off before chapter five? Honestly I should sue.”

She kept reading — stubbornly — to see if maybe the story got better. Spoiler: it didn’t. The star-crossed lovers, Ezra and the blonde girl, wandered the world, battled demons, found magic, all dramatic and tragic… and then died miserably in the end because apparently the author hated happiness as a concept.

Nora stared at the final lines like they were a personal attack.

“What kind of depressed goblin wrote this?” she hissed, snapping the book shut. “And why were all the characters named after real people? Who does that? Who manifests anxiety on purpose?”

She tossed the book across the room. It hit the wall with a hollow thud and landed upside-down on the floor.

“Stupid cursed thing,” she muttered. “Scary name. Familiar name. No thank you. Never again.”

Aine mumbled softly in her sleep and turned over, reaching unconsciously for where Nora should be. Instantly, Nora softened, slipped back under the blanket beside her. Aine settled again, breathing steady.

Nora looked at her friend — her real one — not the doomed fictional version with the tragic ending.

“Yeah,” she whispered, voice shaky from all her spiraling thoughts. “Like we’re ever letting some book decide our future.”

She pulled the blanket up to her chin, squeezing her eyes shut, willing herself to sleep.

She missed it — she didn’t see the book in the corner reorient itself ever so slightly.

Didn’t see the symbols on the cover catch the moonlight and shimmer — not white, but red — like something waking up after being found.

And the night went on, silent and unaware.