I STARED AT THE VASE like it had personally offended me. It was a perfectly innocent porcelain thing—white, with faint swirls of gold pressed into its sides. It sat quietly on my desk, doing absolutely nothing. Just like it had for the last two hours.
I narrowed my eyes at it. My fingers stretched out, palm open. Just like yesterday. Just like when the mop flew across the janitor's closet and made me question everything. I focused—really focused—on the vase.
Move.
Nothing. I pulled my hand back and tried again, this time with more conviction. I even whispered, "Come on," like that would help the air ripple again, like that would summon the force from wherever it had come.
Still nothing. Not even a shiver.
I dropped my hand and let out a groan, falling backward onto my bed with all the dramatic flair of a stage actress mid-tragedy. My arm flopped over my eyes. I stayed like that for a long moment, breathing in the faint scent of the lavender sachet buried somewhere beneath my pillow.
"Maybe I hallucinated the whole thing," I muttered. "Maybe I hit my head and forgot."
Or maybe I'd finally gone mad.
The thought didn't feel too far-fetched lately. From glowing hands to flinging objects across a room to seeing a strange man outside windows—nothing had felt real. And now, when I wanted something to happen—when I needed it to—it was like the universe had put me on hold.
And then, after a while of trying, something shifted across the room.
I sat up quickly. It was the owl. He was watching me. Same as it had been for two days now—perched silently inside the little blanket nest I had made near my window seat. Its feathers looked a little less ruffled today. One wing was still stiff, but it moved now. It was healing. Slowly. But it was those eyes that unsettled me. They weren't normal. They weren't glassy or vacant like other birds. They were alert. Focused. A little too focused.
It tilted its head, watching me like it was trying to understand what I was doing. Like it was amused. Or judgmental. Or something in between.
I then raised an eyebrow. "What?" I asked it, half-laughing at myself.
The owl didn't blink.
"You don't get to judge me," I said, pointing. "You were the one caught in a trap."
Still nothing. But somehow, I felt like it understood.
I shook my head and sighed, grabbing the shallow dish I used for its water and heading toward my little hidden stash of crackers and soaked meat bits. It wasn't gourmet, but the owl hadn't complained. Yet.
"Maybe I am going crazy," I mumbled as I knelt beside its basket.
It shifted its talons slightly, but didn't back away. It let me place the food in front of it without so much as a flutter. Two days ago, it would've snapped or hissed or tried to limp away. Now it just… watched.
"I should name you," I said absentmindedly. "You feel too nosy to not have a name."
The owl blinked once.
"What about Quill? Or… Eagle? Something foresty and dramatic?"
It blinked again.
"You don't like those," I muttered. "Too edgy?"
A third blink.
"Oh my god," I whispered. "Are you actually responding?"
The owl leaned back. And just like that, the moment shattered. It was a bird again. Quiet. Mysterious. Wild.
I shook my head, laughing softly to myself as I stood and stretched.
"Right. I'm officially losing it."
I returned to my bed, curled up against the pillows, and glanced one more time at the untouched vase.
"Move," I whispered again, fingers twitching slightly. It didn't. But the owl's head tilted—just slightly. And in the silence that followed, I swore it almost smirked. So I fed it.
I placed the last crumb of food beside the owl's crate, and stood up, smoothing down my skirt. Though its breathing had slowed and its wing lay still, I remained drawn to its dark, intelligent gaze long enough to wonder what it was thinking—almost as deeply as I wondered about myself. I turned toward the door—about to leave the room—but what I heard next evaporated every thought.
A roar surged until it filled the house. The voices were angry. Louder than any garden party, stronger than a speech from my dad. It slithered along the stairwell and knocked the wind from my chest. I froze—tray in mid-air—my pulse pounding in my ears. I didn't hesitate. I ran from the room, down the marble staircase, through the hall, and out the front door in a flurry.
When I got out, this riot was already at the gate. Uniformed guards formed a thin, trembling line between us. Behind them, a dozen or more townspeople pulsed against the black wrought‑iron barricade of the mansion. The air boomed with furious yelling. Some waved signs that read "LAND BACK" and "WE HAVE NOWHERE". Others shook fists or leaned hard against the chainmail suit of fear that had formed between us.
The guards pressed forward, shields rattling, trying to hold them back. A man in tattered clothes, boots caked in pale dust, then stepped into view. He raised his hand and pointed straight toward me, voice tracking across the chaos. I was scared.
"Your parents took our land! Your parents claimed it when our fathers died here! Now we stand on our own blood in the dirt!"
Another shouted, "You evicted us without warning!"
My stomach tightened. My parents didn't… take land. No.
I swallowed and stepped forward. "What is this about?"
The protestors answered with another roar. Words of grief. Of brokenness. They shoved forward, and a gust of raw emotion caught my chest like a knife. Suddenly, my dad appeared at end of the hall. His suit was untarnished and his posture perfect. He pushed forward until he stood between me and the gathering. His presence turned something in the air like this sharp, polished, and untouchable piece I couldn't decipher.
He raised his voice. "This is private property. You have no right to riot here!"
He pointed to the guards. "Ensure no one crosses this boundary."
The guards advanced slowly. Their shields raised. The protestors pressed in, their voices rising in painful urgency. I remained frozen in place like a candle. Fear mixed with confusion. Was my father seriously telling people they had no claim when the man standing across from him had called this land—our land—his family's home?
My vision flickered. I staggered back. "Dad?" I barely whispered. "Is this—did you—are you listening to him?"
He did not respond. He turned on his heel and walked toward the mansion. I caught his hand on the banister, allowed him to lead me with cold determination. But he didn't look at me. I could feel the anger simmering beneath my skin. Betrayal. Fear. Disbelief.
I wouldn't let this go.
Stepping past indifferent guards, I chased him further down the hall. My voice broke. "Dad! Stop! Please."
He didn't halt. I followed. "Tell me—did you actually take their land?"
He paused at the base of the stairs, glancing at me once—his eyes were slate. "They were illegal settlers, Alice," he said. Then dispassionately, "I have every legal right to remove them."
I dropped my tray. The words landed hard like stones. "Illegal settlers? What about them being people? With homes? With families?"
He inhaled. "Civilization operates by law, Alice. Unsanctioned occupation breaks order."
I realized any further question would be drowned. So I asked finally, trembling, "But couldn't we have helped them? Provided some alternative? Made a place for them?"
His jaw hardened. "That isn't our responsibility."
"If not ours—whose?"
He looked at me then, as though seeing a stranger. His face lost composure. The storm that had seemed distant in his control now found me. "I didn't raise you to cry over strangers, Alice." He turned and entered the end room without another word. I stood at the gate—not guard, not protestor, just a daughter spoken to like a child. A trembling weight pressed inside me. A new understanding unfurled—a specter that said I wasn't the world's favorite character anymore. Not ever again.
"Dad, wait!" I followed.
"Dad!"
"Alice, can you please stop?" he asked. "Those people are illegal settlers!" His voice cuts through the hallway like a blade.
It was the first time in a long while I had seen him lose his composure—not in a political speech, not in a meeting with donors, not even when I spilled tea on one of his signed executive folders last year. But now, standing in our marble-tiled corridor with sunlight pooling through the arched windows, he cracked. The mask dropped, even if only slightly, and I saw the irritation crawling beneath his skin.
"They had no right to that land," he continued, face hard. "None. I had every legal right to remove them."
Legal. That word again. That word he loved so much it was practically stitched into his suits.
I stepped forward, fists clenched, heart thudding against my ribs. "And that's enough for you? Legal? That's what makes it okay?"
He said nothing, jaw set like stone.
"You could've helped them," I said, my voice sharp. "You could've offered them new homes, support—anything. But you didn't. You just sent in the police and locked the gates."
He turned his head slightly, as though that would soften my words, make them disappear.
"You think I haven't seen it? I have. They're still there—camped outside. Sleeping in the dirt with their kids while we dine with crystal glasses and five-course meals. And all you can say is they're not supposed to be there?"
His shoulders squared. "You don't understand the pressure I'm under. There are laws, Alice. Protocols!"
"I understand more than you think," I said bitterly. "I know that you're more worried about your image and your donors than the people you promised to serve."
His gaze sharpened. "Be careful with your words."
"Why?" I laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Because the truth is dangerous?"
He crossed the room slowly, deliberately. "You think this is simple? That you can point fingers and make accusations from your bedroom window without ever having to face what this job costs?"
I met his stare. "Maybe I wouldn't need to if you'd act like a person and not a machine."
That was it. That was the last straw.
"What would you have me do?" he snapped. "Huh? Invite them in for tea? Offer them the living room while they trespass on our property?"
"No," I said. "I would've had you show them kindness. Offer a solution. Even if it meant swallowing a little pride. But you chose the easy way—control, force, silence."
His chest rose and fell, his breathing loud in the stillness that followed. For a second, I thought he might yell again. Instead, something in him changed. His mouth opened… then closed. His eyes dimmed, as if whatever fire had sparked inside him had suddenly burned out.
The silence stretched.
He looked at me—not with the usual sternness or that distant, political polish—but with something else. Something quieter. Wearier. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away.
I stood there, unmoving. I could've let him go. I should've. But something tugged at me—curiosity, maybe. Or something deeper. I followed.
***
We walked in silence, side by side through the empty hallways. The air between us was tense but no longer burning. My steps slowed as we reached the end of the corridor, unsure if I should say anything. He stopped at the back door leading out to the gardens. Hand on the brass handle, he glanced at me—not quite inviting, but not pushing me away either.
"Come with me," he said quietly.
I hesitated. The anger still simmered inside me, but his tone was different now. Not demanding. Not performative. Just… real. So I nodded once, reluctantly.
And followed.
We walked in silence, the sound of our footsteps muffled by the soft crunch of gravel and grass beneath our shoes. The hill behind the estate loomed quietly ahead of us, its slope gentle but steady, dusted with tall golden weeds that swayed with the late afternoon breeze. My father carried a small chest—wooden, weathered, and oddly ornate. It was tucked under his arm, heavy enough that he shifted it from time to time, but he said nothing about it.
I didn't ask what it was. I just kept following.
The air grew cooler the higher we climbed. The mansion faded behind us, hidden by hedges and trees. From up here, the city below looked unreal with distant rooftops and little moving cars, like a toy village scattered across painted earth. At the crest of the hill, my father stopped. He looked around for a moment, then placed the chest gently on the ground and knelt beside it. From his coat, he pulled a collapsible spade—tucked neatly, like he'd planned this long before our argument. Without a word, he began to dig. I just watched in silence, confusion spreading through me like ink in water.
The chest rested quietly beside him as the hole grew deeper, the soil piling up with every second. When the pit was finally large enough, he lifted the lid of the chest with care. Inside, nestled between dark velvet and folded linen, were glinting pieces of gold, expensive jewelry, old coins sealed in waxed paper, and a few items I couldn't even name. There was also a folded envelope with my mother's name written on it in her unmistakable, graceful script.
I stepped closer, my voice unsure. "What… what is this?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he placed the envelope carefully atop the pile and closed the lid. Then he lowered the chest into the earth with both hands. When he stood, brushing dirt from his knees, he finally met my eyes. And for the first time in what felt like years, his expression softened. His voice, when he spoke, had none of the sharpness from earlier. It was low. Measured. Almost… tender.
"There are dangerous times ahead, Alice," he said. "More dangerous than I've let you believe. Things are changing. Faster than even I can control."
I stood still, unsure whether to ask questions or simply listen.
He looked out toward the city. "There are forces at play now—political, economic… and others that can't be reasoned with logical explanations. And if something ever happens to me…" He paused. "If I'm gone, or taken, or… you find yourself alone—this is for you."
I felt my stomach tighten. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I might not have another chance."
I didn't know what scared me more—the warning, or the way he said it.
He returned to the hole and began covering the chest with soil again. The gold, the envelope, all of it vanished beneath the earth like a memory. I stared down at the dirt, still unsure whether to speak. But something in his voice lingered with me—something that made me believe he wasn't just hiding wealth. He was hiding fear. And he was asking me, without quite saying it, to be ready.
"Whatever happens, Alice, know that we care about you," dad said.
I stood still, my heart pounding, my thoughts spiraling like leaves caught in a storm. I wanted to ask him so many things. I wanted to nod and say I understand, even if I didn't. But I couldn't move. Not yet.
He glanced at me, his voice low. "You may not think highly of me right now. And that's fine. Someday, you'll understand."
"Understand what?" I asked. "What are you talking about? That you drove people from their homes? That you buried a chest of gold in the hills like we're living in some kind of spy novel?"
His mouth tightened, but he didn't lash out. He looked… older. Tired.
"There are things I can't tell you yet for your own safety," he said. "Not because I don't trust you—but because knowing them too soon would put you in danger."
"Danger?" I echoed.
He knelt afterwards, smoothing the soil over the chest with steady hands, as if the rhythm of it helped him think. Then he stood and faced me again, brushing dust from his palms.
"There are people," he said slowly, "who are watching. Waiting. And not just me—our family, our name."
"What people?" I repeated, eyebrows furrowing.
"There are things happening beneath the surface, Alice. Things that go beyond property lines and press conferences. Politics is just the theater. What goes on backstage… that's where the real war is."
I stared at him, searching his face for even a hint of exaggeration—but he wasn't bluffing.
"You're scaring me, dad."
He hesitated. "I've spent years keeping our family out of it. Or trying to. But lately…" He trailed off, then inhaled deeply. "Lately, it feels like the tide's coming no matter how high I build the walls. I feel like they're around."
They?
I folded my arms tightly across my chest, not because I was cold, but because I was shaking. "So the riots, the evictions—was that about the land? Or something else?"
He finally looked at me. "Something else."
"Then why keep me in the dark? Why act like I'm just some child who shouldn't question anything?"
"Because I wanted to protect you."
"No," I said, bitterness rising in my throat. "You wanted to control what I see. What I know."
"Maybe I did," he admitted. "And maybe I was wrong."
I blinked. My father never admitted fault. Not to anyone. Especially not to me.
"What's in that chest, really?" I asked, stepping forward.
He paused, then nodded. "Fortune you can use for yourself. Perhaps you can use it for something monumental someday."
I swallowed hard. "Dad, you're really scaring me. What are you trying to say? That I'm in danger? That we're in danger?"
He nodded. "From the Others."
Others?
"There are people out there who are looking for those who are different, Alice," he said slowly. "People who are gifted. Touched by something that the world doesn't understand—and fears."
My brows drew together. "What do you mean 'gifted'?"
He shook his head. "These people—children, sometimes—can do things they shouldn't be able to do. And because of that… they're being hunted by these men."
What the hell is he talking about?
My father didn't flinch. A silence passed between us, heavier now.
"These gifted are being taken," he continued, his voice hushed. "Disappeared. Used for experimentation by groups that claim to be researching evolution, but they're doing far worse than research."
I felt my pulse quicken. "What are you talking about?"
"I know you wouldn't understand now," he said firmly. "Because the less you know now, the safer you'll be. And because the ones doing this… they have eyes where you least expect them."
I looked at him. Really looked at him. For the first time, I saw not the politician—but the father beneath the power. Scared. Exhausted. Trying, in his own flawed way, to protect something far more important than wealth or land.
"I'm sorry, Alice," he said, softer than ever before. "For all of it. But you have to be strong. Stronger than me. And at least know who to trust, okay?"
I swallowed the knot rising in my throat. What is going on?