Amelia stopped speaking the day after Daniel died.
Not because she couldn't. Not because her voice was gone. But because words had failed her too many times. They hadn't saved Thomas. Hadn't saved Mei or Kai nor Daniel. Hadn't made the Harpers keep her. Hadn't stopped people from fearing her.
So why speak at all?
The merchant family—the Carters—took her anyway. They needed someone small enough to clean hard-to-reach places, and they didn't care if the girl talked or not. Cheaper that way, Mrs. Carter said. Less backtalk.
For six months, Amelia lived in their cellar, emerged only to work, and said nothing.
The Carters didn't notice she'd stopped speaking until nearly two weeks in. And when they did, they seemed almost pleased.
"Quiet as a mouse," Mr. Carter observed. "Better than the last girl we had. That one never shut up."
Amelia scrubbed floors, washed dishes, hauled water, emptied chamber pots. She did it all in silence. The Carters spoke around her, about her, but never to her unless giving orders. And orders didn't require responses.
"Scrub the front steps."
"Fetch more water."
"Polish the silver."
Amelia simply nodded and did as she was told.
At night, alone in the cold cellar on her thin mat, she would finally relax. The spirits came to her there, drawn by her loneliness and growing power. She couldn't speak to them aloud, but she'd learned she could communicate through thought and feeling.
*Hello,* she'd think, and they'd gather around her like moths to a flame.
There was the old soldier who'd died in the cellar fifty years ago, still standing guard over nothing. A child who'd drowned in the well, forever seeking her mother. A woman who'd been a servant in this house, worked to death and buried without ceremony.
They were her only companions. Her only friends.
Unlike the living, the dead didn't judge her. Didn't fear her. They were drawn to her light—even she could see it now, a faint silver-violet glow that surrounded her when the spirits were near. They fed on it somehow, grew clearer and stronger in her presence.
*You're getting powerful,* the soldier's spirit observed one night. *I can almost feel warmth again when I'm near you.*
*Is that bad?* Amelia thought.
*No. Just… unusual. Most people push us away, even the ones who can see us. You pull us closer.*
*I don't mean to.*
*I know. But you should be careful. Not all spirits mean well. Some will try to use your power.*
As if summoned by his warning, a dark shape materialized in the corner. One of the malevolent ones—spirits so twisted by their deaths that they'd become something else. Something hungry.
*Fresh power,* it hissed. *Young and untrained. Delicious.*
Amelia scrambled back against the wall. The friendly spirits formed a barrier between her and the dark one, but they were weak compared to its hunger.
*Leave her alone,* the soldier commanded.
*Or what?* The dark spirit laughed. *You'll bore me to death with stories of your glory days? She's too young to defend herself. Too weak. She'll feed me well.*
It lunged forward, passing through the protective spirits like they were smoke. Amelia felt its cold touch on her skin, felt it trying to sink into her, to consume her light.
Terror flooded through her. She opened her mouth to scream—
And light exploded from her.
Not the gentle glow the friendly spirits loved, but a blazing silver-violet fire that filled the cellar. The dark spirit shrieked and recoiled, its form burning away like mist in sunlight.
When the light faded, Amelia was alone. Even the friendly spirits had fled, unable to bear the intensity of her power.
She sat in the dark, shaking, and realized: she was getting stronger. The binding her mother had placed on her was weakening further. The power inside her was trying to emerge, growing harder to control with each passing day.
And she had no idea how to handle it.
-----
Two months after the incident in the cellar, Amelia turned ten years old. No one knew or cared. Birthdays weren't celebrated for servants.
But the spirits knew. They gathered around her that night, the friendly ones who'd slowly returned despite their fear of her power.
*You're growing up,* the servant woman's spirit said. *Becoming what you're meant to be.*
*I don't know what I'm meant to be,* Amelia thought back.
*Something important. Something powerful. I can see it in you, child. You're not meant for this life of servitude.*
*Then what AM I meant for?*
The spirits had no answer.
That same week, Amelia had her first waking vision in months.
She was polishing the Carters' silver when the world shifted. The grey fog descended, and suddenly she was seeing their dining room—but different. Dark. Smoky.
Fire.
The house was burning. Flames licked up the walls, consuming the curtains, spreading across the ceiling. Mr. Carter was trapped upstairs, calling for help. Mrs. Carter lay unconscious near the stairs, overcome by smoke. And their daughter, Eliza—a cruel girl of thirteen who took pleasure in ordering Amelia around and occasionally "accidentally" spilling things on her—was in her bedroom, the door blocked by a fallen beam.
The vision was so vivid, so real, that Amelia could smell the smoke, feel the heat. She saw the exact sequence: a candle left burning in the study, curtains caught by a draft, flames spreading to the wooden paneling.
When she came back to herself, she was on the floor, the silver scattered around her. Mrs. Carter stood over her, looking annoyed.
"What's wrong with you, girl? Did you have some kind of fit?"
Amelia looked up at her, wanting desperately to warn her. To say: "Be careful with candles in the study. Keep them away from the curtains. The house will burn."
But she hadn't spoken in months. Her throat felt locked, her voice buried so deep she didn't know if she could retrieve it.
Mrs. Carter's expression hardened. "Get up. And if you've damaged any of that silver with your clumsiness, it's coming out of your meals."
Amelia gathered the scattered silver with shaking hands. The vision played over and over in her mind. Three days. She had three days to prevent it.
But how? She couldn't speak. Couldn't write—the Carters would ask how she knew. Couldn't directly prevent it without revealing her strange knowledge.
Or… could she?
That evening, Amelia did something she'd never done before. She deliberately disobeyed.
When Mrs. Carter instructed her to set out candles in the study as usual, Amelia simply didn't. She left them in their storage box, "forgot" to place them.
When Mr. Carter asked for his evening candle, Amelia brought one but placed it in a heavy brass holder on the desk, far from any curtains or papers—instead of the usual decorative holder by the window.
When no one was looking, she closed the study curtains tightly, pinned them back from the wall where breezes could catch them.
Small rebellions. Tiny preventions. Done in silence.
On the third day, Mrs. Carter noticed. "Why aren't the curtains open in the study? Why are the candles in different places? Are you trying to reorganize my house, you impertinent child?"
Amelia stared at the floor, said nothing.
"I asked you a QUESTION!"
Nothing.
Mrs. Carter's hand cracked across Amelia's face. "When I speak to you, you RESPOND!"
Amelia's cheek burned, but she didn't cry out. Didn't speak. Just took the blow and kept her eyes downcast.
"Impossible child," Mrs. Carter muttered. "Put everything back the way it was. Immediately."
Amelia's heart sank. She was being ordered to undo the very things that might prevent the fire.
She had no choice but to obey.
That evening, as she replaced the candles in their usual spots, opened the curtains the usual way, set everything back to the dangerous configuration she'd seen in her vision, Amelia felt despair crush her.
She couldn't save them. Just like she couldn't save Daniel. The future was fixed, and her efforts were meaningless.
That night, she didn't sleep. She sat in her cellar, surrounded by spirits, and waited for the inevitable.
-----
The fire started just after midnight.
Amelia smelled the smoke first. Then heard the shouts. She ran upstairs to find exactly what she'd seen in her vision: flames consuming the study, spreading to the dining room, climbing the walls toward the bedrooms.
"FIRE!" Mr. Carter's voice from upstairs. "MARTA! ELIZA! GET OUT!"
But Mrs. Carter was already unconscious in the hallway, overcome by smoke just as the vision had shown. And Amelia could hear Eliza screaming from her bedroom, trapped.
For one crystalline moment, Amelia stood paralyzed.
These people had used her. Worked her until her hands bled. Struck her. Ignored her. Eliza had been particularly cruel, finding small ways to torment the silent servant girl.
Amelia could leave. Run out the front door. Let them burn. Who would blame her? Who would even know she'd been here?
The spirits swirled around her.
*What will you do?* they whispered.
Amelia thought of Daniel. Of his last words: *Promise me you'll keep trying to save people. Even when they don't listen. Even when it hurts.*
She'd promised.
Making a decision, Amelia ran toward Mrs. Carter. The woman was heavy, but Amelia was stronger than she looked—years of hard labor had built muscle on her small frame. She dragged Mrs. Carter toward the front door, inch by inch, lungs burning from smoke.
A beam fell near her head. Amelia dodged, kept pulling.
Finally, she got Mrs. Carter outside, laid her on the lawn. The woman was breathing. Alive.
But Eliza was still inside, still screaming.
Amelia ran back in.
The staircase was fully engulfed now. She'd have to find another way up. The servants' stairs—narrow, at the back of the house, less damaged. She knew where they were; she used them every day.
She ran through the kitchen, smoke so thick she could barely see. Found the narrow stairs. Climbed.
The heat was unbearable. Her dress was smoking. Her lungs screamed for clean air.
But she kept climbing.
Eliza's room was at the end of the hall. Just as the vision showed, a fallen beam blocked the door. Amelia could hear the girl sobbing on the other side.
"Help! Someone help me! I don't want to die!"
Amelia grabbed the beam. It was hot enough to burn her hands, but she ignored the pain. She pulled. Pushed. Used every ounce of strength she had.
The beam shifted.
Pulled again. Harder.
It rolled aside.
Amelia threw open the door. Eliza was huddled in the corner, face blackened with soot, eyes wide with terror. When she saw Amelia, confusion crossed her face.
"You? The mute girl?"
Amelia held out her hand.
"You came to save me?" Eliza looked genuinely shocked.
Amelia nodded urgently, gesturing toward the door. They didn't have time for conversation.
Eliza took her hand.
They ran.
Down the hall, flames chasing them. Down the servants' stairs, the structure groaning. Through the kitchen, the ceiling beginning to collapse. Out the back door just as the main support beam of the house gave way with a thunderous crash.
They stumbled onto the lawn, gasping and coughing. Mr. Carter was there, having escaped through his bedroom window. Mrs. Carter was conscious now, sobbing with relief.
"Eliza!" she wailed, pulling her daughter into her arms. "My baby, my baby!"
Amelia stood apart, hands blistered and bleeding, lungs aching, watching the reunion.
For a moment—just a moment—she thought maybe this time would be different. Maybe they'd see what she'd done. Maybe they'd be grateful.
Then she saw the neighbors gathering. Saw them pointing at her. Whispering.
"Isn't that the mute girl who works for them?"
"Strange that the fire started right after they took her in…"
"I heard she's cursed."
"Probably brought the fire with her. Calamity child."
And Mrs. Carter, hearing the whispers, looked at Amelia with dawning suspicion instead of gratitude.
"You," she said slowly. "This started right around the time you were acting strange. Moving candles. Closing curtains. Did you… did you know this was going to happen?"
Amelia stared at her, unable to respond.
"She knew!" someone in the crowd said. "She knew and didn't warn them!"
"Or she caused it," another added. "These cursed children, they bring disaster wherever they go."
"I want her gone," Mr. Carter said firmly. "I don't care where. Just away from us."
Eliza stepped forward, and Amelia felt a flicker of hope. Surely Eliza would defend her. Amelia had just saved her life.
"She did save me," Eliza said slowly. Then: "But why was she awake and dressed? How did she know to come get me? Unless…" Her eyes widened. "Unless she started the fire!"
"NO!" The word tore from Amelia's throat—the first word she'd spoken in months. Her voice was hoarse, raw, desperate. "I tried to STOP it! I moved the candles, I closed the curtains, I tried to warn you—"
But her sudden speech only made it worse. The crowd gasped.
"She speaks!"
"All this time, pretending to be mute!"
"What else has she been hiding?"
"Demon child!"
Amelia's protest died in her throat. There was no point. They'd already decided who she was. What she was.
The constable arrived, summoned by neighbors. He looked at Amelia—small, burned, bleeding, reeking of smoke—and made his judgment.
"You'll come with me, girl. Until we sort this out."
"She's a danger," Mrs. Carter insisted. "Send her away. Far away."
"Please," Amelia tried one more time. "I was trying to help—"
"You've helped enough," Mr. Carter said coldly.
By morning, Amelia was on a cart heading back to an orphanage. A different one this time, farther from any town, where they sent the "problem children."
She sat in the back of the cart, hands bandaged, throat raw, and made herself a promise: she would never speak again. Words only made things worse. Silence was safer.
As the cart rolled away, she looked back at the burned house, at the family she'd saved standing in front of it alive and whole and angry at her for existing.
Ten years old.
And she'd learned the final, most bitter lesson: even saving people doesn't matter. They'll hate you anyway.
From that day forward, Amelia became the silent child. The ghost herself.