Outside, the sky was still dark. Wind whistled through the cracks in the window, making an old newspaper pinned to the wall rustle loudly. The entire house felt soaked in damp air, the scent of moldy wood clinging to every breath.
Jane Valan opened her eyes and sneezed abruptly. Her bed was an old sofa converted into a makeshift sleeping spot, its springs long broken. Sleeping in it too long made her sink in, and she always woke up feeling like her bones had been rearranged. The yellowish water stain on the ceiling had grown larger, like a silent monster lurking above, dripping steadily.
She turned over, her hand landing on the books beside her pillow.
They were her two most treasured possessions—a tattered copy of Harry Potter and a thick fantasy novel called Dragon Raja. The spines were cracked, the covers so worn the original images were barely visible, but she kept them by her side every night, like old friends standing guard.
She looked down at them, her fingertips lightly brushing over the faded titles.
These books had been a gift from her grandmother on her fifth birthday.
Back then, they still lived in a small house on the outskirts of town. Every day, Jane would follow her grandmother to the market, then sit in front of the TV when they got home. Unlike other kids who ran around playing, she stayed quiet, wide-eyed, tracing the words on the screen over and over.
"You remember things so well, child," her grandmother often said, pulling a piece of fruit candy from her basket and pressing it into Jane's palm.
By then, Jane already recognized a lot of characters, and she spoke in a way that mimicked adults—like a little philosopher, trying to make sense of the grown-up world.
Once, while passing a bookstore in town, she spotted the two books on the bottom shelf—Harry Potter and Dragon Raja, a Chinese fantasy novel. The covers gleamed, as if enchanted, pulling at her gaze.
She stood there, staring for a long, long time.
She was too young then to properly articulate the word "want," but her eyes were too direct, too bright—like she was staring at a door to another world.
She didn't ask for them. She just stood there, transfixed.
Her grandmother asked, "Do you like them, Jane? If you do, we'll buy them."
But Jane shook her head. "No, don't buy them." She knew they had no money—even dinner was something her grandmother scraped together with counted coins.
She thought that was the end of it. But two months later, on her birthday, her grandmother walked out of the kitchen holding a small bundle wrapped in old newspaper.
"Open it," she said with a gentle smile.
When Jane tore the paper away and saw the familiar covers, she froze.
The next second, she threw herself into her grandmother's arms, hugging her tightly as tears spilled down her cheeks.
"My little bookworm," her grandmother laughed, patting her back. "Crying from happiness, are you?"
Back then, Jane didn't understand the weight of money, but she knew—those books had likely cost her grandmother months of savings.
Her grandmother never spent a single penny on herself, yet when Jane needed something most, she would give her the whole world.
People often called her a "parentless stray" or whispered behind her back that she was a "bad omen," but Jane never cared.
As long as her grandmother was there, it was enough.
Thinking of her now, Jane let out a long sigh, the sadness in her eyes spreading like ink at the corners.
"If only I could get a magic acceptance letter like Harry Potter," she murmured to herself.
The world of magic was her only solace—other than her grandmother.
Every time she opened those books, she felt wrapped in another world, as if she could truly disappear into it. In those moments, she forgot all the pain, the scorn, the insults.
So she opened the book and began to read.
She had lost count of how many times she'd read it.
When she reached the part where Harry was crammed into his tiny cupboard, bullied by the Dursleys, she sighed deeply. "He escaped his aunt's house in the end. And I'm… still stuck here."
Jane knew reality wasn't a magical world—no owls delivering letters, no Hogwarts. All she had was a freezing attic and a bed that always let the wind in.
But even so, she couldn't help but lose herself in it. In these books, she wasn't a "bad omen" or a "burden." She could be anyone—someone with power, with choices.
She kept reading until the sound of morning birds outside startled her.
Her heart lurched—Crap, I almost forgot to make breakfast.
She snapped the book shut and jumped out of bed barefoot. Her aunt had warned her countless times: since she was given a roof and food, she had to "know her place." All the housework fell on her shoulders. If breakfast was late even once, she'd be in for a scolding.
She crept downstairs, praying the family was still asleep. Thankfully, the living room was dark, the dining table empty.
Relieved, she hurried into the kitchen, washing rice, boiling porridge, slicing bread with practiced ease. Pots and pans clattered despite her efforts to keep quiet.
"What the hell is all this noise so early?!" Seth stomped down in his pajamas, his voice thick with sleep and malice. "Trying to wake up the whole damn building?"
Standing at the stove, she answered calmly, "I'm making breakfast."
"You call this cooking? Sounds like a damn warzone." He sneered. "You doing this on purpose to ruin my sleep?"
She ignored him, continuing to chop vegetables.
"Don't play mute! Say something!" Seth's temper flared, and he suddenly grabbed her hair.
This was a daily routine. But this semester, Jane had taken a self-defense class. She twisted away, easily evading him.
Seth swung his other fist straight into her stomach. "Bitch, how dare you dodge? You're born to get hit by me."
This time, she couldn't avoid it. The punch landed hard.
"Beg for mercy," he taunted, grinning. "Isn't that what you always do? Maybe I'll let you off if you grovel." His expression was like a kid kicking a stray cat, waiting for it to cower.
Jane did consider begging—it was the fastest way to end things.
But then she caught a small figure peeking from the bedroom door—Emma, her cousin, in pajamas, watching fearfully.
Seth's a spoiled bastard, Jane thought. At eighteen, she could leave—but Emma would still be trapped here. And Emma was soft. If Jane backed down now, her cousin would suffer the same fate.
Her eyes hardened. She shoved Seth hard, sending him crashing to the floor.
Before he could react, she was on him, her hands around his throat.
"You think you can bully everyone?" she hissed, squeezing tighter. "Touch me or Emma again, and I'll choke you dead. Got it?"
Seth, shocked by her sudden ferocity, nodded frantically. In his struggle, he grabbed the table leg—knocking over a milk bottle. It shattered on the floor.
Jane let go, staring at the mess. Aunt's going to kill me.
Seth coughed, then smirked. "Idiot. Now you've spilled the milk. Let's see how Mom punishes you."
But milk splatters dotted his hair, making him look ridiculous.
Jane clenched her jaw. "You knocked it over."
Though unnerved by her glare, Seth spat, "Mom always thinks you're clumsy. Apologize, or I'll tell her you lost your mind—attacking me, breaking things. You'll be thrown out to beg on the streets."
Jane hesitated. Even if she told the truth, her aunt wouldn't believe her.
She'd only believe her precious son. And she'd been looking for an excuse to get rid of Jane for years.
A sudden fear gripped her. She thought of her grandmother.
Years ago, her grandmother had fallen seriously ill. Too old, too weak to care for her, she'd begged Jane's aunt to take her in.
Her grandmother didn't know this house was hell.
But it was the only refuge she could give. If Jane got kicked out now—how heartbroken would she be?
Jane's gaze dimmed. Maybe she'd gone too far.
Seth, sensing her hesitation, sneered. "Apologize. Then get on your knees and clean it up."
"You spilled it!" A small voice piped up from the doorway.
Emma stood there, clutching a stuffed toy. "I saw you…"
Seth whirled on her. "Shut up! You want a beating too?"
Jane stepped between them. "Leave her alone."
Then she turned back to Seth, smiling coldly. "You really think your mom will always take your side?"
Slowly, clearly, she laid it out:
"One—Emma saw everything. Two—there's milk in your hair. I'm half a head shorter than you. How would it land on you unless you knocked it over? Gravity doesn't work backward."
Then the final blow:
"Three—if you lie, I'll tell Aunt you've been skipping school for a month. You sneak out to game, copy my homework, and forge her signature on sick notes."
Seth paled. Fear flickered in his eyes.
"Lay a finger on me or Emma again," Jane said, "and I'll expose you today."
Just then, the click of heels echoed down the hall.
Her aunt walked in, scanning the mess. "Who spilled the milk?"
Seth mumbled, "Me…"
Her aunt's glare shifted to Jane. "Why are you standing there? Clean it up. And no breakfast for you—you can watch us eat first."
Jane nodded silently.
Her uncle sat at the table, as always, saying nothing—like none of this concerned him.
She cleaned the pots, watched them eat, then knelt to wipe the floor.
She scraped the leftovers into an old bowl and ate in the corner, fighting back tears.
She thought of her grandmother—the only one who ever truly loved her.
Then she wiped her eyes, swallowed the last bite, and made a vow:
I have to get stronger.
Only then could she leave.
Only then could she save her grandmother.
And finally—step into the light.