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Chapter 1 𓍯𓂃𓏧♡ (edited)
I once believed freedom was a miracle waiting for me.
But miracles don't easily come to someone like me. Standing by the window, where Lucy and I used to dream of escape, all that remains is an emptiness I can't shake.
The room around me is small and cold, the walls cracked and peeling. A narrow window lets in the late october afternoon air , casting shadows on the worn stone floor. The bed is a thin mattress on a metal frame, with stiff blankets and a torn pillow. A rickety desk and chair sit in the corner, surrounded by chipped linoleum. The air is thick with dust, the silence suffocating and consuming. It's a place of isolation, where time seems to crawl.
The wind blows against my face, cold yet somehow comforting. I take a deep breath, but it does nothing to soothe the ache in my heart. I don't protest. I embrace it, letting the pain tighten, letting it deepen.
After all the time spent in the confinement chamber, I finally let myself crumble. I grieved, bargained, and let the depthless abyss swallow my heart whole
The bed beside mine now remains untouched, cold. She vanished yesterday, taken away—adopted—without a word. 'She' being Lucy, my one and only friend.
The matron—Ms. Cole—hadn't bothered to inform me, even though she knew exactly how much Lucy meant to m.
When I dared to ask, her glare had cut through me.
"You have no right to question my judgment," she snapped before assigning me extra chores as punishment.
Every floor scrubbed. Every room tidied. Bed sheets ironed, crisp and flawless. Any crease would mean more chores, or worse—confinement, with barely a meal to survive on.
Now, I know that I had already experienced the worst.
But back then, I didn't. And so I tried my best to avoid it and not act recklessly.
Back then, I'd tried to be obedient but even then I had been an empty shell.
I regretted asking. I regretted forgetting my place. Most of all, I regretted that I dared to care. Because here, caring is a weakness, and weakness is something Ms. Cole thrives on exploiting.
The days that followed Lucy's disappearance blurred into endless hours of labor.
The routine was the same every time.
Scrubbing floors, folding sheets, biting my tongue.
My hands bled from the cold water and harsh soap, yet I felt nothing but the ache of losing her.
The emptiness dragged me down, but the guilt was worse. It clung to me, a weight I couldn't shed, whispering that I'd failed her
I knew I should've fought for Lucy—should've demanded answers, demanded to know where she'd been taken, if she was even alright.
But I didn't. I let the weight of the matron's wrath crush me instead.
And when you're broken, it's easier to let go.
Easier to forget.
So I let go.
And the worst part? I hated myself for it.
How could I not? Knowing full well that our friendship deserved more—deserved so much more—than to be shattered by something as small as me breaking down because of Ms. Cole.
The helplessness made me feel so small. The chores were one thing, but the emptiness in my chest—the loss—was unbearable. No amount of scrubbing could erase that feeling.
I hated that I hadn't fought for her. For us.
I couldn't bear it any longer.
The guilt, the helplessness, the desperation, the emptiness—all of it overwhelmed me
It all led me to dare to question Ms. Cole yet again.
I knew it was reckless.
But the weight of desperation had clouded my every sense. Every logical thought.
When I finally stood before Ms. Cole again, hoping for a shred of information about Lucy, I was met with cold indifference. Desperation clouded my thoughts, urging me to do something—anything—to push back against the overwhelming helplessness I felt.
But then something inside me snapped.
It wasn't the sharp reprimand she gave me, or the icy look in her eyes as she dismissed me. It was the rage. The heat that burst through my veins, simmering beneath my skin, a storm I couldn't contain.
And then, in an instant, it happened. I remember it all too vividly—the flames, the heat, the shock
The flickering candle on her desk flared, flames surging as though reflecting the rage burning inside me. Fire swallowed the lustrous crimson carpet and licked at Ms. Cole's gown. She screamed, scrambling to extinguish it, but the fire surged, wild and alive, and for one reckless moment, I felt no remorse.
For one reckless moment, I didn't care if it consumed her.
I didn't move. Couldn't . The heat beneath my skin felt alive, like the fire was an extension of me.
And I knew.
I knew it was me.
I knew it, deep down. That fire was mine. The prickling heat under my skin, the wild pulse in my chest—it had to be. Something inside me had released it, and as I stood there, watching the flames lick at the edges of her gown, I felt no remorse.
I watched her struggle, a part of me relishing her panic. She called for help, and by the time the others arrived, the carpet and part of her gown were ruined and scorched beyond repair.
But it was my refusal to help hat she noticed most. And that's what earned me the worst punishment yet.
Hence, I ended up with bruised hands from all that scrubbing, and a broken, hollow heart trapped within the cold, still walls of the confinement chamber.
The confinement chamber—a place of isolation. Confined to a cold, dark room with nothing but my own thoughts, and one measly meal a day. My punishments had been harsher, my isolation longer than the others.
Still, the memory of that small victory—that tiny flame I had once kindled—stayed with me. Somehow, it helped me survive in that chamber-cell. A cell designed to break 'misbehaving' children.
But in the end, it wasn't the physical or mental pain that hurt the most.
It wasn't the cold.
It wasn't the confinement.
It wasn't the numbness that came from enduring endless punishments—daily chores piled with extra ones, shortened meals, isolation, and confinement.
None of that compared to the real pain.
It was losing Lucy.
The one person who kept me sane, kept me grounded. Without her, I had nothing left to hold onto. She had been my lifeline in this bleak, unforgiving place. Now, that lifeline was gone.
And with it, any hope I had of surviving here.
A sharp knock at the door drags me from my thoughts. When I turn, he's there.
Tom Riddle, leaning casually against the frame, his dark eyes locking onto mine. For a moment, it's as if the world tilts on its axis. Everything slows to a crawl, every breath loud and deliberate in the stillness. His gaze is sharp, calculating—peeling me apart piece by piece—and I can't move. Can't move.
He's taller now, his presence heavier, more deliberate, as though the shadows themselves had bent to his will to bring him here. Something about him feels different, sharper, darker, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth is unmistakable.
My thoughts spiral.Just when I thought he'd given me enough shite to bear for a lifetime, his presence is thrown back into my life.
Why now. What does he want? Why now? Has he come to play some new game, to torment me because he knows… knows I'm alone? That there's no one left to shield me if he—
No. Stop. I force the panic down, imagining still waters. A clear lake under a sky freckled with stars. I am safe. I will not assume.
He shifts, his shoulders relaxed, arms crossed over his chest as if he's entirely at ease. But his dark eyes are unrelenting, watching me with unnerving precision.
"What do you want?" I finally manage, my voice quieter than I'd intended.
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he studies me for a moment longer, as though deciding something, before his lips curve into a smile—one that feels more like a warning than a gesture of kindness.
I watch him dragging those deep, deep onyx eyes up and down my form. Until those pools of blackholes gaze into mine.
A glint visible in his eyes.
Was that all he had to offer after all this time? Just amusement?
Had I been the only one who thought our friendship was worth holding onto? To him, it seemed like a fleeting moment, easily dismissed. The faint glint of amusement in his eyes made it clear—he hadn't changed. But everything else had.
He speaks, breaking me out of my thoughts, his voice cold.
"The matron's looking for you."
I stare at him, not sure how to respond...
It's been a long time since Tom...no Riddle.. spoke to me—years, really. We used to talk, once upon a time, when we were younger, when things felt different. But those days are long gone. Now, there's only this distance between us. A distance I don't know how to bridge.
"What does she want?" I ask, my voice quieter than I intended.
He shrugs, but there's something in his eyes—something unreadable. "You tell me."
I grimace for a moment. What was I thinking?
Of course, he wouldn't tell me, even if he knew.
And of course, he knew.
He always knows.
After years of living alongside him, I've learned that Tom Riddle is never out of the loop. He always knows everything, always in control. I've seen how he charms people, how he provokes them, pulling strings like a master puppeteer.
But now? Now , I can't make sense of his actions. Surely by now, I should be able to break down his cryptic messages, to understand the patterns that once felt so clear. But no . It's all blurred now, slipping through my grasp.
It feels as if something—no, everything—has changed.
Now, more things have changed as more time passed by. Nothing is like what it used to be—not him, not me. The echoes of who we were felt distant, blurred, like looking at a memory through a fogged glass.
Time. A small word but holds immense meanings
There are so many misconceptions about it. But with time, I've learned that it doesn't exist to heal us; it exists to teach us. Time passes, and in its quiet, relentless way, it becomes our greatest teacher. It doesn't soothe wounds; it reveals them. It shows us the wrongs and the rights, what we should have done, what we could have done.
Theories about time abound, each trying to pin down its essence, but one thing I know for sure—
Time doesn't heal; it shifts, reshapes, erases.
What once felt eternal now slips through my fingers, fading into something unrecognizable. It doesn't mend wounds—it reveals them
Time doesn't wait for us to make sense of it. It moves forward, leaving us to learn, to change, or to be left behind.
And it left Riddle and me to change.
For me to learn and for him to leave me behind.
Time stood between us like a silent judge, its verdict clear but cruel. It gave me lessons I didn't ask for, clarity I didn't want. And for him? It gave the chance to walk away, to become someone I no longer recognize.
I held on, hoping for an echo of what we used to be. But time doesn't grant second chances; it only moves forward, taking pieces of us with it. Time didn't let me grasp onto it, making me drift away from the memories and bonds I wanted to preserve.
Now, all that's left is what I've learned and what he's left behind.
In the time he had shut me out of his life, I noticed how different he was now—more cold, more calculating.
Before, Riddle had been a feared boy who terrorized the other kids here. Now, he seemed to have composed himself completely. His dark nature was hidden beneath a carefully constructed facade.
It was clear he had already mastered the art of slipping into multiple personas. If he pretended to be an innocent boy, I doubt there'd be anyone who wouldn't believe him. But Riddle was far from innocent. Far from what he pretended to be.
Now, Tom Riddle wasn't just a boy who was feared anymore.
The other boys admired him, the girls fawned over him, but something about him had always unsettled me. It always has, and it always will.
I rise slowly, smoothing down my skirt, deliberately avoiding his gaze. As I move toward the door, I feel his eyes on me—watchful, as always. When I pass him, he smirks, that same small, knowing smirk that makes my stomach twist.
I pretend not to notice.
"We wouldn't want to keep her waiting, would we?" he says, stepping aside, his voice casual, almost bored.
I don't reply. Instead, I walk down the hallway, the cold air wrapping around me, as heavy and oppressive as the silence of the orphanage itself.
Behind me, I hear his footsteps falling in sync with mine, unhurried but deliberate. It unsettles me more than it should.
Tom bloody Riddle had suddenly shown up at my door after years of ignoring my existence, years of shutting me out. And now, here he was, fetching me like nothing had ever happened, like we weren't the sum of all the fractured memories we'd shared. Acting as though the past didn't exist. As though we'd never met. As though everything was fine. As though there was nothing to change when there was nothing at all to begin with.
If he'd come back just to act like a prat, then this certainly wasn't his best effort.
My life had already been enough of a mess without his interference, and I wasn't sure I could keep my cool if this was some new game of his. Some attempt to play with me, to watch how "the pathetic girl" would react to his sudden reappearance.
For a moment, I consider letting the nagging thoughts go. Maybe it's better to ignore him entirely, to not give him the satisfaction of knowing he's gotten under my skin. But the question slips out before I can stop it.
"Why are you walking with me?"
He doesn't bother to look at me, his tone even, almost indifferent. "The matron summoned both of us."
Both of us? My brows furrow slightly. Ms. Cole never summoned us together. She always dealt with things separately. Why now?
"What for?" I ask, though I already know he isn't going to give me a straight answer.
He chuckles softly under his breath, a low sound that barely escapes his throat. "You think asking me will get you anywhere?"
I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to remain calm. "I haven't done anything wrong," I murmur, half to myself. But the words feel empty even as I say them. Hadn't I? The fire, Lucy... There's plenty I've been blamed for. And who knows what else is lurking in the shadows, waiting to catch up with me?
He casts me a quick glance, his expression unreadable, his voice neutral. "Neither have I."
I don't believe him. Not entirely.
Trouble follows Tom Riddle like a shadow, always just a step behind. But he's clever, too clever to get caught. The matron doesn't trust him—none of the staff do— but they've never been able to accuse him of anything. He always stays one step ahead.
We walk in silence for a few more moments, our footsteps echoing in the narrow corridor. The unease between us feels heavier than usual, pressing down like a weight I can't shake.
'What do you reckon she wants?' I ask, keeping my voice casual, though my nerves churn.
Tom's gaze flicks to me, a slow smile tugging at his lips. 'Does it matter?' he says, his tone light but laced with something sharp, like he's already three steps ahead of me.
I hesitate, then let out a soft sigh. "No, I suppose not."
The silence stretches again, longer this time. I try not to let my mind wander, but it's impossible not to. Why were we both being called? Why together?
As we approach Ms. Cole's office, Tom slows his pace slightly, glancing sideways at me. His expression is neutral, but there's something in his eyes, something flickering just beneath the surface. Something I can't quite place.
"You seem nervous," he says, the faintest trace of amusement in his voice.
I raise an eyebrow, refusing to let him see how unsettled I am. "Why would I be?"
He shrugs, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Just an observation."
I look away, my jaw tightening. He's always had a way of making me feel like I'm teetering on the edge of something, like he knows far more than he's letting on. And the worst part is, he probably does.
When we reach the door, I stop for a moment, my hand hovering just above the handle. "You think this is about us?"
Tom's voice is calm, detached, as if none of this matters to him at all. "I doubt it."
I nod, though the uncertainty churns in my stomach. Without another word, I push the door open and step inside, ignoring the way his gaze lingers on me for just a second too long.