Chapter 18. The Voice Beneath

Morning returned to the orphanage not as bright daybreak but as a heavy, muted grey that clung to the frost-glazed windows like wet wool, seeping into every crevice of the cold stone corridors. The temperature wasn’t painful—it simply settled over everything, a weighty presence that reminded each child that warmth here was a luxury granted to few.

Aeryn drifted through that subdued morning as though she wore someone else’s shape. Around her, the others went about their routines with a comforting predictability: low laughter ricocheted off the walls, wooden bowls clattered against chipped tables, benches scraped across flagstones, and the thick aroma of root-porridge—earthy, peppered with salt—hovered above each spoon. Yet all of it slid past Aeryn behind a pane of invisible glass. Sounds were muffled, the air felt thinner, as if every inhalation reminded her she did not belong fully to this moment. She kept her shoulders low, her movements deliberate and spare, breathing shall