THE MORNING BEGAN DIFFERENTLY. Usually, I woke to the gentle clink of teacups and the soft hum of the garden fountain just outside my balcony. Mornings in the Whitlock household were supposed to be quiet and controlled—like the opening notes of a symphony. But today… there was noise. Not the usual background bustle of staff or the distant rumble of my father's voice on a call. This was louder. Messier.
I sat up slowly, blinking away the sleep. The curtains were still drawn, but the sound crept in through the cracks—shouting, horns, and what sounded like… chanting?
I slid out of bed, still in my silk pajamas, and padded across the carpet to the nearest window. I hesitated for a second, then gently lifted one corner of the blinds. Outside the estate's massive black gate, there was a crowd. Dozens—maybe more—gathered on the other side of the iron bars. Their clothes were worn. Their faces were angry. Some held signs, handwritten and uneven. I couldn't read the words from this far up, but their movements were charged, urgent, furious.
Police officers stood along the gate, forming a rigid line to hold them back. A few officers tried to calm the crowd with extended hands and firm gestures, but it was clear—this wasn't a polite protest.
It was a rally. A real one. At our house.
I let the blinds fall back into place and stood still for a moment, unsure what to make of it. Why were people protesting outside our home?
I dressed quickly—nothing elaborate, just a light blue day dress and flats. My usual routine felt unnecessary. Somehow, curling my hair or applying blush seemed almost offensive against the backdrop of what I had just seen. When I reached the staircase, I heard voices drifting up from the parlor below. Low at first. Then sharper. Controlled, but clearly strained.
"…this isn't sustainable, Alec," my mother was saying. "You know that!"
"We've already dealt with it. The council reviewed everything—"
"Clearly not thoroughly enough if they're standing outside our gates!"
I froze mid-step, heart tapping uncomfortably in my chest.
"It's a passing response," my dad said, his voice more dismissive now. "People react. It's natural."
"This isn't a passing reaction. They're angry. They feel cheated. Some of them lost—"
I made the deliberate decision to walk louder then, letting my steps announce my presence. As expected, their voices hushed immediately. Mom was the first to turn. She stood beside the window, one hand still loosely holding a cup of coffee she hadn't touched. Her expression shifted in seconds—from tension to the calm, composed version she always wore when I entered a room.
"Alice," she said gently. "Good morning, darling."
Dad looked over his shoulder, offering a faint smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Didn't expect you up so early."
"I couldn't sleep," I said. "It was… loud."
I watched them closely. They looked too polished, too still.
"What's going on outside?"
They paused. That same quiet beat of silence they always gave each other when something unspoken passed between them.
My father shrugged, as if brushing off a fly. "Just a group protesting something we supported in a vote. It's nothing serious."
My mother added, "These things happen now and then. Public reaction is part of the process."
"What vote?" I asked. "Why are they at our home?"
"They're upset," my father said, "but they're directing it at the wrong place. That's all."
His tone was light. Measured. Almost practiced.
"They didn't look like the kind of people who normally protest."
I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth. Not because they weren't true—but because of what they revealed. My own detachment. My own bubble.
My mother crossed the room toward me. "Sweetheart, don't worry yourself with it. It'll be over soon."
"But—"
"You should eat," she said, her voice cutting gently through mine. "You'll be late for school if you don't."
I stared at them both for a moment longer.
There was a tension in the air that hadn't been there before. Not just in the room, but in the whole house. Like the walls were holding their breath.
I nodded. "Okay."
I turned toward the dining room, even though I wasn't hungry. Even though I was still bothered by the noise outside.
The table had already been set, of course. Fresh flowers in the center. A plate of buttered toast, eggs, and fruit sat waiting on my side of the table. Everything in its place. Everything untouched. I sat down and picked up my fork, but I barely moved it. My thoughts were louder than the sounds outside now.
My parents didn't lie, not exactly. But they never really told the truth either. They had perfected the art of redirection—of protecting me from the unsightly parts of the world with distractions and sweet-sounding words.
But this time, it didn't work. Not completely. Because I had seen the faces at the gate, and they weren't just loud. They were grieving something. I didn't know what.
***
When I arrived at school, I unenthusiastically sat near the bleachers. The football field stretched wide and green before us, lined by white chalk and ringed with proud trees. I sat at the top with Cecily and Maribelle, their chatter filling the spaces between the whistle blows and the rhythmic thuds of cleats against turf. The team was in the middle of drills, the orange cones laid out like miniature barriers, and the players weaving through them like dancers on cue.
Dwight Carrington, of course, led the pack.
He moved with the ease of someone who knew people were watching. Light brown hair tousled just so. His shirt clung to the kind of muscles boys our age rarely had. Girls whispered his name like it was a spell. Usually, I would've been watching too. But today, I couldn't. My eyes were on the field, but my thoughts were stuck somewhere far less comfortable—on the nightstand in my room. On the protest outside our gates. On the way my mother's voice trembled, just barely, when she thought I wasn't listening.
I hadn't told anyone about the shaking.
How could I? "Last night my snow globe moved by itself" didn't sound particularly sane, and besides—what if it hadn't moved by itself? What if it was a dream, or a trick of the light, or just the room settling? But I remembered the tremor. The precise rattle of glass against wood. The way it stopped when I did.
And then this morning… the crowd. The signs. The anger. The way my parents pretended not to be nervous, when I could see they were.
Something was off. No—everything was off.
"You're quiet today," Cecily said, nudging my elbow gently.
"Hm?" I blinked, trying to focus.
"You've been zoning out for the last ten minutes," she added.
"Is it the test again?" Maribelle asked. "Because you don't need to worry about Harriet. One weird high score doesn't mean anything."
I gave them a faint smile. "It's not that."
"Then what is it?" Cecily tilted her head, studying me. "You look pale."
"I'm fine," I said quickly, brushing it off. "Just a little dizzy. Maybe I didn't eat enough."
That seemed to satisfy them—at least enough not to press further. Still, I could feel their eyes lingering on me every now and then, probably wondering if I was about to faint or burst into tears or do something equally dramatic.
I wasn't. I just needed air.
"Going to the restroom," I said, already standing before they could offer to come with me.
I stepped down the bleachers and made my way toward the school building, the hum of the field fading behind me. My flats clicked softly against the pavement. The wind tugged at the hem of my skirt. I hadn't taken more than ten steps through the corridor when I turned a corner and almost collided with someone.
Books spilled. A binder thudded against the tiles. Loose sheets scattered like startled birds. When I looked up, it was Harriet. She dropped to the floor with barely a sound, already reaching for her things. Her black dress hung loosely from her body, and strands of hair had fallen across her face.
"Oh," I muttered, startled. "Sorry—didn't see you."
She didn't respond. She just kept gathering her papers, movements quick and quiet. I hesitated, then crouched beside her to help.
One of the papers had landed near my foot. I picked it up. At first, I thought it was part of a class reading—some article from history or sociology. But then I saw the headline.
MISSING: 12-Year-Old Disappears from Sylvan Orphan Home—Third Case This Month!
I froze for a moment. Another paper, still half-folded, showed a photo of a boy with blurry eyes and a headline beneath it:
"Families Still Waiting for Answers Amid Rising Disappearances"
There were more of them, I realized—some printed from websites, others clipped from newspapers. Neat circles marked certain names in red ink. The edges were worn, like they'd been handled again and again. Harriet looked up at me. Her eyes, slate-colored and unreadable, settled on the article in my hand.
She said nothing, just held out her hand.
I passed the paper to her and quickly turned away, suddenly feeling awkward for looking too long. She didn't explain, and I didn't ask.
We stood at the same time. She gathered her things into her arms without another word. No apology. No eye contact. Just a small nod of acknowledgment before walking past me and disappearing down the hall.
I stared after her, heart a little unsettled. What was she doing with all those articles? Why did she care about missing children?
I knew she was strange. Everyone did. She sat alone. Wore black almost every day. She never joined group work unless required and spoke only when prompted. But this… this was different. Not just weird. Not goth-girl weird.
Secretive.
And for reasons I couldn't explain, I found myself unsettled—not by what she'd dropped, but by how quietly she had carried it. As if it were a burden only she was meant to carry.
I looked down the empty hallway one last time before turning toward the classroom. And as I walked, my mind did something strange: It connected dots that didn't exist.
A shaking nightstand. A protest outside a gated mansion. A girl carrying clippings of missing children.
And suddenly, the world didn't feel so well-lit anymore.
***
Hours later, I was left alone in the exit. Most students had already been picked up. I waited near the old acacia tree by the curb, the usual spot where Charles parked the limousine when he came to fetch me. My bag sat on the bench beside me. My mind, however, was far elsewhere. The protest, the nightstand, the articles Harriet carried—they all played on a loop in my thoughts, blurring together like fragments of a dream I didn't fully understand. I tried to push them away. I even tried listening to the birds in the nearby trees or watching the way the wind moved through the grass by the track field.
But still, my chest felt tight with something unnameable.
Then, I heard this soft sound. Sharp but distant. Not a student. Not a car. Something between a screech and a chirp. My eyes scanned the field across the parking lot, where wild shrubs and tall weeds gathered near the back fence. There, just beyond the edge of the running track, something moved. It was a flutter—awkward and low to the ground. Not flight, exactly. More like a struggle.
Curiosity tugged at me. I grabbed my bag and crossed the lane, careful not to draw attention from the few remaining students milling about. The path curved behind the gym, where the bushes grew thicker and the school grounds weren't so meticulously trimmed. That's when I saw it.
An owl. Not the white, storybook kind, but a brown one, mottled with soft feathers and dark wings. Its body was small—juvenile, maybe. But it had sharp eyes and strange tufts of feathers above them, giving the illusion of… eyebrows. It blinked once, then flapped wildly, trying to lift off the ground but failing.
Its leg was caught.
A small, rusted trap, almost hidden beneath the grass, had clamped around its ankle. Not enough to break the bone completely, but clearly tight enough to cause pain. The poor thing struggled again, wings lifting with sheer instinct, but the force only made it wince and shudder.
I crouched.
"Hey," I whispered, more to the air than to the owl. "Easy."
The bird clicked its beak and flared its wings, clearly defensive, but too weak to fly.
I glanced around. No one else in sight.
Then I looked back at the trap. A crude thing—snapped together with wire and a hinge. Who would leave something like this on school grounds?
Slowly, I reached forward. The owl hissed again, and for a moment I hesitated. But then I remembered the protest. The papers. The way my nightstand shook with no explanation. Everything in my life felt fractured lately—unfamiliar, unpredictable. But this? This was simple. This was something I could fix.
With slow fingers, I loosened the wire around the owl's leg. It wasn't easy—part of it had tangled in the feathers—but eventually, after a careful minute, the tension released.
The owl, however, didn't flee. It twitched, yes. Flinched. But then collapsed slightly, breathing heavily, head bowed. Its body was trembling from the effort. Up close, I could see the injury—no blood, but bruising under the leg, and one wing that wasn't quite folding the right way.
"You poor thing," I murmured. "You're not going anywhere, are you?"
It blinked again. Its strange feathered brows tilted inward, making it look almost… annoyed. Or maybe confused. I pulled my cardigan from my shoulders, carefully wrapping it around the owl like a soft cocoon. It squirmed, but didn't resist too hard. I gently lifted it into my arms and held it close to my chest.
Just then, I heard the low purr of the limousine pulling up on the opposite curb. I peeked through the trees and saw Charles as he stepped out to open the door as usual. I glanced down at the owl. Its eyes were wide but no longer flaring.
"I'll take care of you," I whispered.
I shifted my bag to my other shoulder and cradled the owl with both arms as I made my way back to the car. As I approached, Charles opened the door for me, and I turned slightly to conceal what I was holding.
"Good afternoon, Miss Whitlock," he said politely.
"Hey," I replied, slipping into the car quickly.
Once inside, I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. The owl barely moved now, nestled in the fabric, its breathing still shallow but no longer panicked. Charles, on the other hand, got in and started the engine. The car eased forward, and we slipped back into silence.
As we passed the city streets, I stared out the window, my reflection soft against the glass. The protest had quieted. The students had gone home. Harriet was likely in her room, surrounded by newspaper clippings. But none of it occupied me now. Not like this.
I looked down at the bundle in my lap. The owl blinked again, once. Its eyes were impossibly dark, like tiny voids. It didn't screech or twitch. It just… watched me.
When we arrived at the estate, Charles opened the door again. "Welcome home, Miss."
"Thank you," I said, gripping the bundle carefully.
I hurried up the steps and through the front door, passing a maid who bowed slightly in greeting. I mumbled a response, hoping she wouldn't notice the way I cradled the cardigan as if it were something breakable. Once in my room, I locked the door.
The house around me was still the same—quiet, elegant, polished. But for the first time in a long while, I didn't care about the perfect curtains or the angle of my mirror. I gently unwrapped the owl and placed it on the bed, near the folded corner of my blanket. It shuffled once, testing its feet, but didn't attempt flight. Its left wing hung oddly, and it gave a low sound—something between a groan and a sigh.
I retrieved a shallow porcelain bowl from my vanity and filled it with cool water from the bathroom. Setting it down beside the owl, I stepped back.
It hesitated at first. Then, with slow, cautious movements, it dipped its beak into the water and drank.
Something about that moment—so small, so simple—made me feel like the world was quiet again. No protests. No rattling furniture. No mysterious classmates.
Just the soft sound of feathers shifting, and the steady rhythm of something I had helped survive.
I then sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb the creature beside me. For a while, I just watched it breathe. Its chest rose and fell with effort, but it was no longer trembling. Its gaze, when it flicked to me, held no fear now. Only wariness. It was enough. In that moment, I didn't need answers to the questions that had haunted me since yesterday. I didn't need my mother's vague reassurances or my father's deflections. I didn't even care that Harriet Withers had outscored me.
All I cared about was this small, injured bird—strange, fierce, and beautiful in its own wild way. Maybe, in some odd sense, we weren't so different.
Both of us startled by things we didn't understand. Both trying, in our own ways, to figure out where we belonged.