THE OWL WAS SLOWLY RECOVERING.
It had been days since I found it—weak and caught in a crude trap—and brought it home bundled in my cardigan. Since then, I had turned my bedroom into a place where it can recover. Every morning, before the maids could come in to change my sheets or fluff my pillows, I locked the door and quietly tended to him. I kept him nestled in a nest of folded towels on the bench by my window. I'd cut a piece of mesh from an old laundry bag and draped it over the bench's edge, just in case it ever tried to hop away while I wasn't looking. But he never did. The owl mostly rested, blinking his dark eyes and tilting its head curiously whenever I spoke to him. He still flinched sometimes, especially when I moved too quickly, but it no longer hissed or spread its wings in warning. And I thought that he's way too intelligent for an owl.
Well, he trusted me. At least a little.
At the same time, I had become good at hiding it. I slipped scraps of meat from the kitchen under napkins. I brought small dishes of water when no one was looking. No one noticed. Not the maids, not even my mom, who rarely came into my room unless a guest was being given a tour. Although I found comfort in the silence of caring for the him. He didn't ask questions. He didn't deflect or deflate. He simply was. An owl.
That day, I sat beside the bench, carefully placing a small bowl of chopped chicken on the towel beside the owl.
"You know," I murmured, "I can't just keep calling you 'owl.' That's ridiculous."
It blinked at me. Not dismissively. Just curiously.
I leaned back on my hands. "So what's your name?"
Of course, it didn't answer.
I smiled anyway. "Thought so."
I hadn't settled on anything yet. Names felt too definite for a creature that had just landed into my life like a strange riddle. I'd considered "Bram," or "Inkwell," or even something absurdly romantic like "Dwight," but nothing stuck. So, for now, it remained a mystery. One I didn't mind keeping.
I was just about to reach for the water dish when a familiar voice echoed up the stairs.
"Alice! Time to eat!"
My father's tone wasn't impatient, but it was firm—cutting through the air like it always did when he spoke from the bottom of the grand staircase.
I glanced at the owl. "Be good."
Then I stood, smoothed my dress, and left the room, locking the door behind me.
The scent of rosemary and roasted vegetables wafted up to greet me, mingling with something buttery and rich as I made my way downstairs. The familiar warmth of it almost made me forget the quiet storm spinning in my chest. Well, almost.
At the foot of the stairs, I turned toward the kitchen, drawn by the rhythmic clatter of plates. My mom was there, meticulously setting the table just like she had every evening since I was twelve. Forks perfectly aligned. Napkins folded into crisp fans. Her movements were graceful, like she was performing a silent ballet only she understood. She glanced up and smiled when she saw me.
"Dear, you go wash your hands," she said softly, placing down a serving spoon.
"Hi, mom," I replied, pausing at the edge of the dining room. I folded my hands behind my back, unsure whether I wanted to go inside or turn around and run back to the owl.
"You're just in time," she continued. "Food's almost ready. The roast is resting."
"Smells good," I said, though I hadn't really noticed until now. I looked around the room. Candles had been lit along the length of the table, casting golden halos on the polished wood. The glasses sparkled. Every plate looked like it belonged in a magazine. Everything was… normal. And that unsettled me more than anything.
"You feeling alright, sweetheart? You look pale."
I hesitated. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"Well," she said gently, returning to her silverware, "your dad mentioned you've been quiet lately. I told him it's probably the schoolwork. You always work too hard."
I offered a smile, thin and polite. "Maybe."
I wanted to tell her. About the protest. About the way my dad shut me out when I asked. About the owl upstairs and the glowing in my hands and the mop that moved. But I couldn't.
What would she say? That I needed rest? That I was imagining things?
Served by our butler, the meal began with a clear vegetable soup in porcelain bowls, followed by grilled seabass with herb butter and garlic rice. Everything smelled like perfection and tasted even better. But the atmosphere? That was something else entirely. Dad sat at the head of the long oak table, dressed still in his day suit. My mom then sat with her back straight, slowly sipping her citrus water. I took my place at the side, trying not to fidget with the embroidered napkin on my lap.
For a while, no one said much. Just the soft clink of silverware. The occasional swallow of a drink.
Then I spoke.
"Have they left?"
Dad looked up from his plate. "Who?"
"The people at the gate," I said. "The ones who were protesting."
A pause. Then, a tight smile.
"They've moved on. As expected."
I cut a piece of fish. "Why were they there?"
"They were upset," he replied simply.
"I know that," I said. "But why were they upset with us?"
"They weren't upset with us, Alice," he said, more firmly. "They were upset about a political issue. Something they didn't understand fully."
I glanced toward my mom. She was unusually quiet, her fork resting beside her untouched rice.
I pushed gently, "But they were outside our home."
My father dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "Alice. You need to stop reading too much into things. It's over."
I didn't stop. "But what did we vote for? Was it something that hurt them?"
His eyes narrowed just slightly—not a glare, but a warning.
"It's not your concern."
I looked to my mother again. "Mom?"
She gave a thin smile. "Politics is complicated, darling. Sometimes people just… react."
"To what?"
My father's voice cut in, sharper this time. "That's enough."
I blinked. "I just want to know—"
"I said that's enough, Alice!"
The table fell silent. Even the butler, who had just stepped in with a tray of dessert, froze momentarily before setting it down and excusing himself with the practiced grace of someone who had long learned when not to listen. I swallowed hard, the room suddenly too bright, too stiff.
Without another word, I stood, my chair scraping softly against the marble floor.
"May I be excused?" I asked, already moving.
Neither of them answered. But no one stopped me, either.
***
I wasn't looking for a reason to be upset that day. But my day had been testing me anyway. It began innocently enough when I arrived at school. I was asked by our homeroom adviser to help reorganize the student performance records on the classroom desk—an easy task, something I had done many times before. Normally, it brought me a sense of satisfaction. I liked order. I liked seeing my name perched at the top of the list, gleaming proof of my efforts.
The names were arranged in descending rank—top performers in each activities for the week, students with outstanding merits, and the cumulative academic scores for the previous assignments. I flipped to the last page. My finger hovered over the list.
'Withers, Harriet'
'Whitlock, Alice Everly'
For a second, I blinked, thinking perhaps I had misread it. But no. There it was, plain as day: Harriet Withers had perfected the activities since she transferred. By less than a fraction, yes. By less than two weeks. But still, the ranking was hers. Her name. Above mine.
My stomach twisted.
After everything—after the pre-test, after the suspicious articles about missing children, after her moody, brooding silence—she was the one the system deemed worthy of first place? I was supposed to be the best. The one teachers smiled at, the one students admired, the one who always came out on top. That wasn't arrogance—it was how things had always been. Since primary school. Since forever.
I closed the folder a little too sharply and stood, trying to compose myself.
Breathe, Alice.
This doesn't mean anything—yet. And so, like any girl with a sense of justice, I went searching for answers.
I spotted Professor Aldren near the faculty lounge. His graying hair was slicked neatly to the side, glasses perched low on his nose. He was always polite, if slightly distracted. The kind of man who believed in systems and rarely raised his voice.
I approached him, forcing the smile I'd perfected over years of being admired.
"Good afternoon, sir," I said sweetly.
"Ah, Alice," he replied, glancing up. "Need something?"
"Yes, actually. I was wondering if the department had finalized the selection for the organizational leader?"
He gave a small nod. "We have."
"And… may I ask who was chosen?" I said, already knowing—but hoping.
His expression remained neutral. "The department has made its decision."
"Yes, I understand," I said, pressing just a little. "I just thought I might be considered this year. I've led several projects, and my grades—"
"Have been excellent," he interrupted, gently. "But the decision was collective. We felt it was time for… a new face."
That phrase again.
A new face.
He didn't offer more. And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there with my words half-formed in my mouth.
The rest of the school day passed in a blur of chalk dust and mumbled answers. I sat through Math without absorbing a single equation. In Literature, I stared blankly at the margins of my notebook, doodling circles instead of taking notes. Even Dwight's laugh from across the room—normally something that sparked a flicker of foolish hope—barely registered.
I wasn't just distracted. What had Harriet done to be so good? She never participated. She never led. She just hovered in the corners of the room like some brooding ghost, scribbling in her notebook, dressed like a funeral. But apparently, that was what teachers wanted now. Mystery. Novelty. A "new face." I felt like I was being erased, one decision at a time.
By the time the final bell rang, I was determined to speak to Professor Aldren again. Properly this time.
I gathered my things and walked briskly down the hallway toward the teacher's office, rehearsing what I would say in my head—something firm but respectful. Maybe if I just reminded him of everything I'd done, every contest, every committee… Then I stopped.
Voices echoed from around the corner of the hallway, just outside the office. I recognized his immediately. But the second voice made my skin crawl.
Monotone. Quiet. Cold.
Harriet.
I pressed myself lightly against the wall, holding my breath. I wasn't trying to spy—at least, that's what I told myself. I just needed to understand.
"…we're offering you the position," Professor Aldren was saying.
A pause.
Then Harriet replied, her voice flat. "I wasn't expecting that."
"You've shown incredible performance since you got here. Quiet, but consistent. Thoughtful."
"And that's what you want?" she asked, as if suspicious.
"We believe you'll bring a different perspective," he replied. "Something fresh."
"Something new," he added.
I stood frozen. The words struck deeper than they should have—because they were true. No amount of school projects or ribbons could undo the fact that someone had replaced me. I wanted to march around the corner. Instead, I turned on my heel and walked the other way—fast.
A new face. That was all he said. No explanation. No apology. No recognition of everything I had poured into this school for years—my perfect grades, my class participation, my leadership in every committee that actually mattered. Just… those three words, dropped like a stone.
A new face. Like mine was worn-out wallpaper. I didn't wait to hear the rest. I turned and left.
The hallway spun around me as I bolted down its polished floor, past windows blushing orange in the late afternoon sun. I didn't care who saw me. I didn't care if Dwight was standing somewhere nearby, laughing with his teammates. I didn't even care that my mascara was probably smudged and my ribbon had come loose. My heart felt like it was shattering, piece by delicate piece.
I didn't stop until I reached the old corridor near the gym storage wing—where the janitor kept his supplies and no one really ventured unless they were late for PE. The closet door groaned as I yanked it open. I stepped inside, slammed it behind me, and twisted the lock until it clicked into place. Then the sob escaped my lips. I sank down against the door, hugging my knees to my chest, choking on a sound I didn't even recognize as mine.
I was supposed to be the one they picked. I was supposed to be admired, to be recognized. But instead, they chose Harriet, with her cold eyes and darker-than-night sweaters, her silence mistaken for depth, her mysterious outsider energy that everyone suddenly found so interesting. What did she have that I didn't? What made me so easy to overlook?
My tears came harder. Because in a way, this made me remember how my parents fail to appreciate everything that I did.
I curled in tighter, trying to squeeze the thoughts into something manageable—but it refused. It built, wave after wave, until my whole body trembled. Then something shifted. A faint creaking. A low hum. I opened my eyes and saw that the mop leaning against the far wall was rattling in its bucket. Not violently, not at first—just a soft tremble, like it was reacting to my crying. I blinked. Sat up straighter.
The air in the closet felt heavier now. Around me, the cleaning supplies—spray bottles, folded rags, even the string mop heads—quivered like they were caught in an unseen breeze. But the door was shut. There was no wind. Not a sound exactly. More like a pressure. Like the air was folding in on itself—tightening, bracing. My skin prickled like I was underwater, like I couldn't tell where my body ended and the air began.
I looked down. Something was wrong with my hands.
They were… shimmering. No, not shimmering. Bending the air around them. Like heat rising from a pavement. Like the world itself couldn't decide how to see them. And then came the hum. Soft at first. Barely there. But I felt it—deep in my chest, humming through my ribs like a second heartbeat that wasn't mine. A vibration, quiet but wild, like the space around me had started breathing. My fingers twitched.
A ripple pushed outward—small, delicate, but real. It brushed past the wall of buckets beside me. They trembled. The mop closest to the door jolted slightly, the string ends swaying like grass in a breeze.
I stared. Frozen.
"What…" I whispered, but even my voice sounded far away.
It was coming from me. This—whatever this was—it was inside me. Pouring out in pulses I couldn't control, like a dam cracking under too much pressure. My emotions weren't just in my chest anymore. They were in the room.
Everything I had shoved down since the day Harriet stepped into my class, since my parents shut me out, since I realized maybe the world wasn't as neatly dressed as my morning uniform—all of it was radiating from my body. Like I'd finally broken. I raised my hand slowly—more out of instinct than choice—and aimed it toward the mop. A soft ring of pressure spiraled from my palm and…
Whoosh.
The mop flew off the wall, slammed against the other side of the closet, and clattered to the ground in pieces. I gasped.
My hand was shaking. My whole body was shaking.
It was like something exhaled from inside me. A pulse—not loud, not violent—but deep. A bubble of pressure pushing out from my chest, my fingertips, my spine. The kind of energy that doesn't announce itself with sound, but with silence. The kind that makes everything in the room pause, hold its breath, listen.
I didn't move. Not at first. Around me, the air quivered like fabric caught in a breeze. The mop that had flung itself earlier now lay quiet again, but the floor around it was dustless—wiped clean in a perfect circle where the pulse had reached. I stared at the ripple of space around me. The faintest shimmer, like glass fogged by breath.
And then—pop. The bubble vanished. The air snapped back into place like a pulled rubber band. I stumbled slightly, catching myself against the shelf of cleaning sprays. The world was still again. Too still. And I knew I couldn't stay there. Whatever had just happened, I couldn't pretend I hadn't felt it. I couldn't pretend the mop had flung itself across the room because of "airflow" or "dust" or whatever excuse my mind wanted to invent.
I needed air.
I unlatched the closet door with shaking fingers and slipped out, closing it gently behind me. The hallway was empty. My footsteps echoed as I walked toward the wide windows at the end of the corridor. But my gaze wasn't on the floor. It was pulled—magnetically to something outside. There, just beyond the school's wrought-iron gate… stood a man.
Still. Unmoving.
He was dressed in black from head to toe. A tailored suit, crisp and spotless. A fedora shaded most of his face, but what unsettled me most was what wasn't there. His face… wasn't just hidden. It was wrong. Obscured in a way that didn't make sense. Like the light bent around it. Like my eyes couldn't quite find where it began or ended. Every time I tried to focus, it slipped—like oil on water. And I feel that he was staring at me.
I could sense it. That eerie stillness—the same weight I'd felt moments ago in the closet—pressed against my chest again. Not painful, but suffocating in its quiet intensity.
The man didn't move. Didn't wave. Didn't blink.
He just stood.
Then—
"Alice!"
I jumped.
The sound cracked through the haze like a pebble on glass. I turned.
Dwight was walking toward me down the hallway, a crooked half-smile on his face and a backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. His voice was casual, normal—grounded in the kind of realness I hadn't felt all day.
"You good?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "You looked like you saw a ghost or something."
I blinked at him, then turned back to the window. The man was gone. The street was empty. The sidewalk, still. The space where he had stood was now filled with nothing but fading shadows and the flicker of tree branches in the breeze.
I stared longer than I should have. Then I shook my head.
"Nothing," I murmured. "I… I just thought I saw someone."
Dwight leaned beside the window, peering out. "There's no one out there."
"Yeah," I said, forcing a smile. "I must've imagined it."
But I wasn't sure I had. Because the air still felt wrong. And because somewhere—deep in the part of me I was still too afraid to name—I knew that man had been watching me long before I noticed him.