Amy dreamed of boxes.
They were everywhere—stacked too high, blocking doorways, crowding the walls. Some were open, spilling clothes and notebooks and half-written stories onto the floor. Others were sealed tight with thick brown tape, labels scratched out so she couldn't read them.
Every time she reached for one, it vanished into thin air.
She woke before her alarm, heart pounding, the echo of cardboard still clinging to her chest.
For a few seconds, she didn't know where she was.
Then the room settled into focus. Fairy lights draped over her desk. Chloe's hoodie slung over the chair that sat in the corner of the room. The crack in the ceiling, jagged like a lightning bolt.
Home.
She let out a breath she hadn't realised she was holding.
Downstairs, Mrs Carter was humming.
It was an old song Amy didn't recognise—soft, looping, the kind that sounded like it knew how things ended but sang anyway. The radio murmured quietly. Toast popped.
"You're up early," Mrs Carter said.
"Bad dream," Amy replied.
Jamie looked up from his cereal. "Zombie bad or monster bad?"
"Box bad."
Chloe narrowed her eyes. "That's the worst kind."
Amy tried to smile. It didn't quite land the way she thought it would.
School felt stretched thin, like time itself was fraying.
In English, the teacher announced a group project. Desks scraped together. Names were exchanged too quickly.
Amy's shoulders tensed.
Introductions always led somewhere.
"So," one of the girls said lightly, "where were you before here?"
Amy blinked. "Here?"
"Yeah. Like... before."
Before Mrs Carter.
Before Chloe and Jamie.
Before unpacking.
"Places," Amy said.
The girl nodded, unconvinced.
Something about the way she looked at Amy—curious, assessing—made Amy wonder who else had been asking questions and who else was winding the same thing.
By Wednesday evening, her stomach hurt in a way that had nothing to do with food.
She walked to the community centre alone this time, no Jamie, no Chloe and no Mrs Carter. The sky hung low and colourless. The five-minute walk felt longer, as if the road itself was dragging its feet.
Rowan wasn't there when she arrived.
That made her chest tighten.
She kept glancing at the door, half-expecting him to appear behind her instead.
When he finally came in—ten minutes late, breathless—he avoided her eyes.
"Sorry," he muttered. "Bus."
Sarah nodded, sharp and unreadable.
"Tonight," Sarah said, "we're writing about beginnings."
Amy's pen froze.
Beginnings were dangerous.
They asked too many questions.
She wrote anyway.
My life is made of first days
and unfinished sentences.
She stopped. The rest pressed against her ribs, demanding space she wasn't ready to give.
When it came time to share, Rowan stood.
Again.
He waited a beat too long, like he was measuring the room.
"This one's short," he said.
Then he read.
"Three weeks.
Twenty-one days.
That's how long it took
for them to decide
She was too quiet.
Too sad.
Too much work."
Amy's vision blurred.
No.
"Her first room wasn't hers.
Her first bed wasn't safe.
Her first goodbye came
before she learned
where the cups were kept."
The room felt suspended, like someone had paused it mid-breath.
Amy couldn't move.
Twenty-one days.
The exact number.
The woman who complained she didn't talk enough.
The social worker's soft voice.
The suitcase that never got emptied.
Rowan lowered the page.
Looked at her.
Not accusatory.
Not sympathetic.
Certain.
"That's enough," Sarah said, voice cutting clean through the silence.
Rowan blinked. "What?"
"You're not just writing," Sarah said. "You're aiming."
"I'm inspired," he said quickly.
"No," Sarah replied. "You're informed."
Someone whispered.
Someone shifted.
Amy stood before she meant to.
"My first foster home sent me away," she said.
Her voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else.
"After three weeks," she continued. "Because I cried at night and didn't eat properly and didn't know how to be easy."
Rowan's confidence faltered.
"I didn't tell anyone," Amy said quietly. "Not then. Not after."
She met his eyes.
"So how do you know?"
The silence stretched.
Rowan looked down.
"My sister," he said. "She was in your year. She talked. A lot."
Amy felt something cold settle in her stomach.
Talked to who?
Sarah stood abruptly. "We're taking a break."
Chairs scraped. Voices rose in low murmurs.
Amy walked out—not running this time.
Outside, rain dripped steadily from the gutter, each drop sharp and precise.
Her phone buzzed.
Chloe: Where are you?
Amy: Outside writing club.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared.
Chloe: Want me to come?
Amy typed. Deleted.
Amy: Maybe later.
Mrs Carter was waiting when she got home.
She always was.
She didn't ask what happened. She just opened her arms.
Amy stepped into them.
"I didn't last," Amy whispered.
Mrs Carter held her firmly. "You lasted. They failed to keep you."
That night, Amy opened her notebook.
She wrote carefully, like the page might be listening.
Three weeks was not failure.
It was training.
Then, underneath:
Someone remembers.
I don't know who else knows.
But I stayed.
She closed the notebook slowly.
Some beginnings never stopped echoing.
And Amy was starting to realise—
her past hadn't found her by accident.