Ch 3- The curse of curiosity

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.

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