After Brother Chen dead Amelia had found her way back to the orphanage once again she had just arrived at the door there only to be sent away before she even stepped through the gate.
This time a kind older man Marcus Aldwin had take her in as a maid for his sick daughter but that hadn't lasted long after only three weeks disaster struck again and there she was back at the Orphanage.
Mrs. Graves's expression when Marcus Aldwin returned Amelia was something between satisfaction and disgust.
"Back again, I see," she said, looking at Amelia with that familiar cold assessment. "I'm not surprised. The cursed always return."
Marcus shifted uncomfortably. "She saved my daughter's life during the flood. She's a good girl, despite the strangeness. I simply can't afford to keep her right now, but perhaps in the future—"
"There won't be a future," Mrs. Graves cut him off. "This girl is mine until she ages out or dies. Accept it."
Marcus looked like he wanted to argue, but the weight of his losses—home, business, security—crushed any charitable impulses. He pressed a small coin into Amelia's palm.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "You deserved better."
Then he was gone, and Amelia was alone in the orphanage office, staring at the woman who'd tormented her for years.
Mrs. Graves's smile was sharp as a knife. "Welcome home, girl."
-----
The other children had changed in the three years Amelia had been gone. Some had been adopted, some had aged out, new faces had arrived. But the orphanage itself remained exactly the same: cold, harsh, and suffocating.
Martha was gone—adopted by a family seeking cheap labor. Amelia felt nothing about this. The girl had been cruel, but she'd been a child raised in cruelty. The system created monsters and then blamed the monsters for existing.
Emma was still there.
The little redheaded girl was now eight, still small for her age, but alive. She'd survived the fever that should have killed her—the fever Amelia had sent her to town to treat. When Emma saw Amelia return, her face lit up with the first genuine smile Amelia had seen in years.
"Amelia!" Emma ran to her, wrapping thin arms around Amelia's waist. "You came back!"
Amelia stood rigid, unsure how to respond to the affection. She'd trained herself not to feel, not to connect. But Emma's warmth was undeniable.
"I knew you'd come back," Emma whispered. "I've been waiting."
Waiting. As if Amelia's return was inevitable rather than a failure. As if coming back to this place was somehow a reunion rather than a defeat.
Amelia gently extracted herself from Emma's embrace, her expression carefully neutral. She wouldn't let herself care. Couldn't let herself care.
But Emma just smiled up at her, undeterred. "I saved you a bed. The one next to mine. It's been empty since you left."
-----
The spirits had multiplied in Amelia's absence.
The orphanage had always been full of them, but now they were almost overwhelming. She saw them everywhere—in every corner, every shadow, every reflection. The dead who'd died here, the dead who'd died nearby, the dead who simply wandered and found this place of suffering familiar.
And they all saw her.
"The seer returns," they whispered in their hollow voices.
"The child of twilight comes home."
"Does she know yet? Does she understand what she is?"
Amelia ignored them as she'd learned to ignore everything. But their words burrowed into her mind like worms.
Child of twilight? What did that mean?
The dark spirits were more aggressive now, emboldened by her return. They'd swirl around the orphans at night, feeding on their nightmares, their fears, their despair. Amelia watched them torment a young boy who still cried for his dead mother, saw them circle a girl who'd been abused before coming here, felt them press against her own mind looking for cracks in her armor.
"Join us," they'd hiss. "Stop fighting what you are. You bring death wherever you go. Embrace it. Let us teach you to wield it."
Amelia would close her eyes and think of nothing. Feel nothing. Be nothing.
It was the only defense she had.
-----
Two weeks after her return, the old cook's spirit found her again.
Amelia was in the kitchen scrubbing pots when the familiar translucent form materialized beside her. The spirit looked different somehow—fainter, as if she was fading.
"Hello, child," the old woman said softly. "I'm glad you're back, though I wish you'd found somewhere better."
Amelia kept scrubbing. Didn't acknowledge the spirit. Couldn't afford to show any reaction where others might see.
"You're closing yourself off more than before," the cook observed. "This three years away hardened you further. I can see it in your aura—you're building walls so high even you can't see over them."
Amelia's hands stilled for just a moment before resuming their mechanical scrubbing.
"I'm fading," the spirit continued. "It's time for me to move on. I've stayed too long, watching over children I couldn't help. But before I go, I need to tell you something important."
Despite herself, Amelia's attention sharpened.
"You're not cursed," the old woman said. "You never were. What you have is a gift—the ability to see between worlds, to perceive the soul cycle, to witness death without dying yourself. It's rare. Precious. Terrifying, yes, but not a curse."
Amelia wanted to scoff. A gift? Her entire life had been suffering because of this "gift."
"I know you don't believe me," the spirit said gently. "But the reason bad things happen around you isn't because you cause them. It's because you're drawn to places where the veil is thin—where death is near, where spirits gather. You're like… a lighthouse for the dead. You can't help but shine."
A lighthouse. Amelia almost laughed. More like a target.
"The dark spirits lie to you," the cook continued. "They tell you you're death itself, that you bring misfortune. But that's not true. They're attracted to you because you can see them, can potentially help or harm them. They want to corrupt you, turn you into something they can use. Don't let them."
Amelia finished the last pot and moved to the next one. Still no acknowledgment. Still no reaction.
The spirit sighed. "You're stronger than you know, child. Someday, you'll understand your power. Someday, you'll stop running from it and learn to use it. I just hope…" The old woman's form flickered badly now, barely holding cohesion. "I hope you survive long enough to see that day."
"Thank you," Amelia whispered—so quiet only spirits could hear. "For watching over us."
The old cook smiled. "You spoke. After all this time, you spoke."
"Only to you," Amelia breathed. "Only to the dead."
"Then I'm honored." The spirit reached out one last time, her hand passing through Amelia's shoulder. "Be brave, little one. Your parents loved you. They died protecting you. Don't waste that sacrifice by giving up on yourself."
My parents? Amelia wanted to ask, but the spirit was already gone—truly gone this time, moved on to whatever came after. The veil had finally released her.
Amelia stood alone in the kitchen, hands submerged in cold, greasy water, and felt more isolated than ever.
The only spirit who'd ever been kind to her was gone.
And she'd never asked the questions that mattered.
-----
That night, Amelia lay in her narrow bed, staring at the ceiling. Emma slept peacefully in the bed beside her, small chest rising and falling with gentle breaths.
Around them, the dark spirits prowled.
"She's gone," they whispered gleefully. "Your guardian is gone. No one to protect you now."
"We can take you," others hissed. "Make you ours. Show you what real power is."
"Join us, join us, join us," they chanted.
Amelia closed her eyes. She could feel them pressing closer, their cold presence seeping into her skin. For the first time in years, she felt truly afraid. Without the old cook's presence, without that gentle spirit standing guard, Amelia was vulnerable in ways she hadn't been before.
The dark spirits sensed her fear. Fed on it. Grew stronger.
One materialized directly above her, its form writhing and hungry. "Little seer," it purred. "Little lost child. Let us show you what you really are."
It reached for her face with elongated, shadow-made fingers.
And then Emma screamed.
The little girl had woken to find dark shapes swirling around their beds. She couldn't see them clearly—didn't have Amelia's sight—but she felt them. The cold. The malevolence. The wrongness.
"Amelia!" Emma cried, reaching across the gap between beds. "Something's wrong! Something's here!"
The moment Emma spoke her name, something inside Amelia shifted.
She'd spent years trying not to care, not to connect, not to let anyone matter. But Emma's terrified voice broke through all her carefully constructed walls.
This little girl who'd done nothing but show Amelia kindness—she was in danger. And it was Amelia's fault. These spirits had come for Amelia, and Emma was just collateral damage.
No.
Amelia sat up, her eyes blazing with something she hadn't felt in years: rage.
"Leave her alone," she whispered, her voice rusty from disuse but firm.
The dark spirits paused, surprised. The girl who never spoke had finally found her voice.
"She's mine," the closest spirit said. "Her fear, her terror—it's delicious."
"No," Amelia repeated, louder now. "She's mine to protect."
Power surged through her—the same silver-violet light that had burst from her when she'd protected Marta from the evil spirit years ago. But stronger now. More controlled. Fueled not by blind panic but by conscious choice.
The light exploded from Amelia in waves, and the dark spirits shrieked. They scattered like roaches before a flame, their forms dispersing into nothing.
For a moment, the dormitory was filled with that strange twilight glow. The other children stirred in their sleep but didn't wake. Emma stared at Amelia with wide, awed eyes.
"You… you can see them," Emma breathed. "The things in the dark. You've always been able to see them."
Amelia nodded slowly.
"That's why you're different. Why you seem to know things." Emma's voice held no fear, only wonder. "You're not cursed, Amelia. You're… you're special."
Special. The old cook had said the same thing. Called it a gift.
Maybe they were right.
Or maybe Amelia was just broken in ways that happened to be useful sometimes.
She lay back down, exhausted from using power she didn't understand. Emma reached across and took her hand.
"Thank you for protecting me," Emma whispered.
Amelia squeezed back—just once, just enough to say *you're welcome* without words.
And for the first time in a very long time, Amelia didn't feel quite so alone.
Maybe caring about someone didn't have to mean watching them die.
Maybe, just maybe, it could mean having something worth fighting for.