The morning light filtered through the cracked windowpanes of the orphanage, casting jagged streaks of sunlight across the worn wooden floorboards. Jack sat on the edge of his cot, his sharp gaze flitting between the children bustling about the room. Breakfast was a cacophony of clattering bowls, muffled laughter, and whispered conspiracies. Yet Jack, with Amon's memories coiling like smoke in his mind, watched it all with calculated detachment. Each interaction was a puzzle, each child a piece, and Jack knew he had to put them together if he hoped to navigate this fragile balance of belonging and control.
At the far end of the dining hall, Caleb Garrison—a broad-shouldered boy with a perpetual sneer—barked orders at the younger children. They scurried to clear plates and refill mugs of watered-down milk under his imperious gaze. Caleb reveled in control, his swagger that of a self-appointed ruler. Jack filed this away. A leader, yes—but also a liability, a threat to be neutralized or manipulated when the time came.
Then there was Stasha Lysandir.
She sat apart from the chaos, her delicate frame silhouetted against the light streaming in from the window. Her gaze remained fixed on the forest beyond, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the table. Something about her stillness made Jack uneasy. She didn't seem like someone waiting; she seemed like someone who already knew.
His attention flickered back to Caleb as the boy slammed a plate down, eliciting a flinch from one of the younger orphans. Jack's instincts warned him not to intervene; drawing attention to himself now would only complicate things. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, the weight of Amon's memories stirring like restless shadows in the corners of his mind.
By mid-morning, Jack found himself outside, ostensibly helping Lila Fairbrooke hang laundry on the sagging lines behind the orphanage. The sun was warm on his skin, but the weight in his chest refused to ease. A conversation drifted over from a group of older children playing nearby.
"A family's been looking for him for years," a boy muttered, his voice low and conspiratorial.
"Don't be stupid," another scoffed. "If they cared that much, they'd have found him already."
The words cut through Jack like a blade. A memory clawed its way to the surface: the echo of a woman's voice, choked with desperation, calling Amon's name. Jack clenched his fists, forcing the memory back. This wasn't his life. It wasn't his pain. Yet it felt real enough to leave his pulse racing.
"Jack? You're pale. Are you feeling all right?"
Lila's voice pulled him from his thoughts. He turned toward her, his expression schooled into neutrality. "I'm fine. Just tired."
But Lila's perceptive eyes lingered on him, and Jack knew she wasn't convinced. Her concern was both a complication and a weakness—something he couldn't afford to exploit or allow to fester.
That night, the orphanage fell into its usual uneasy quiet, the kind that left Jack feeling more exposed than the noise of the day ever could. Restless, he wandered out into the courtyard, only to stop short when he saw Stasha standing alone beneath the open sky.
The moonlight bathed her in an ethereal glow, accentuating the sharp angles of her face. Her gaze was locked on the sky, her expression serene yet unfathomable. Jack hesitated, unsure if he wanted to approach her or retreat back into the shadows. But something about her presence drew him closer.
"Enjoying the view?" Jack's voice broke the stillness.
Stasha turned slowly, her eyes meeting his with an intensity that sent a chill down his spine. "The moon always finds the broken things," she said, her voice soft but steady.
Jack narrowed his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She smiled faintly, the corners of her lips barely curving. "It means you can't hide forever."
For a fleeting moment, Jack felt as though she could see past his mask, as though she knew the truth of the boy who wasn't really a boy. It was infuriating—and terrifying.
Stasha turned back to the sky, dismissing him without another word. Jack walked away, his mind churning, her cryptic words refusing to let him rest.
By the time he returned to his room, the orphanage had settled into silence. Jack sat on the edge of his bed, exhaustion dragging at him. Yet as soon as he closed his eyes, the memories returned, unbidden and relentless.
He saw a tree, its gnarled branches stretching toward a gray sky. Beneath it sat two boys—Amon and Bob, laughing as they shared a pilfered loaf of bread. For a moment, the memory was almost warm, almost innocent. Then it twisted. The laughter became cruel, the bread a bargaining chip in an unspoken game of power.
Jack woke with a start, his chest heaving. He pressed his hands to his temples, his frustration boiling over. These memories weren't his, yet they clung to him like a second skin.
Then it hit.
The sharp, alien pain came suddenly, ripping through him like an iron hook. Jack doubled over, clutching his chest as the sensation consumed him. It wasn't physical—it was deeper, as though something was tearing at his very soul.
His breath came in short gasps, his eyes darting around the room. For a moment, he thought he saw movement in the shadows—a flicker of something watching him, waiting.
And then it was gone.
The air felt heavy as Jack sat motionless, his body trembling with the aftershocks of the pain. He hated this. He hated the vulnerability, the feeling that Amon's madness was creeping into his own psyche. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to breathe. Whatever this was, he would face it head-on.
The commotion in the front hall came without warning, shattering the tense quiet of the orphanage. Jack slipped silently down the stairs, his footsteps barely audible against the creaking wood.
Two strangers stood in the doorway.
The man was tall and lean, his sharp features marked by lines of weariness. He gripped a weathered cane, though his posture suggested he didn't rely on it.
The woman beside him clutched a small locket in her trembling hands. Her eyes were filled with a desperate intensity, her expression both hopeful and terrified.
"We're looking for a boy," the man said, his voice steady but heavy with emotion. "He would be about 15 years old now. His name is Amon."
Jack froze, his blood turning cold.
Lila Fairbrooke hesitated, her protective instincts warring with the strangers' evident sincerity. "There are many children here," she said cautiously. "How do you know he's here?"
The woman stepped forward, her voice trembling. "We've been searching for years. Please—he's our son."
Jack's stomach churned, his mind racing to calculate possibilities. These people couldn't be trusted—no one could. But if they truly believed he was Amon, what leverage could he gain from them?
The air in the orphanage's front hall was heavy with tension as Jack stepped into the dim light. The two strangers stood at the threshold, their faces a blend of hope and disbelief.
Lila Fairbrooke turned toward him, her expression conflicted. "Amon," she called gently, her voice tinged with both hesitation and protectiveness.
Jack froze for a heartbeat. His instincts screamed at him to stay still, to betray nothing. Carefully, he descended the stairs, each step measured, his face unreadable.
As he stepped into the light, the woman gasped audibly, her hand flying to her mouth. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over as she clutched the small locket in her trembling fingers.
"It's… it's him," she whispered, her voice breaking with emotion. But then, as her gaze scanned him more closely, confusion clouded her features. "But… how?"
The man's sharp eyes narrowed as he studied Jack, his expression shifting from shock to suspicion. "He's too young," the man muttered, almost to himself. "Amon would be fifteen now. This… this boy is no older than seven."
The woman shook her head, clutching the man's arm. "No, it's him. I know it's him! Look at his face, Eli. Look at his eyes!"
Eli, still visibly unsettled, frowned deeply. "It doesn't make sense, Clara. How could he be here like this? It's not possible."
Jack's heart raced, though his expression remained calm. His mind churned through possibilities, assessing every word, every gesture. These people thought he was Amon. But their confusion suggested they weren't certain—or at least that something about his appearance defied their expectations.
Lila, caught in the crossfire of emotions, stepped forward. "Perhaps there's been some mistake," she said softly, her tone trying to soothe. "This boy… he's been here for a while now."
"No," Clara said firmly, her voice rising with conviction. "It's him. I can feel it." Her trembling hand reached out toward Jack, stopping just short of his face. "Amon… it's me. It's your mother."
Jack's gaze flicked between the two strangers, his mind racing. He felt the weight of their stares, their desperation pressing against him like a suffocating tide. He couldn't afford to react recklessly.
"I don't know you," Jack said evenly, his voice quiet but deliberate.
The words hit Clara like a physical blow. Her face crumpled, and her hand fell to her side. "Amon, please," she pleaded, her voice cracking. "It's me. Don't you remember?"
Eli placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, his expression grim. "Enough, Clara. We need answers, but this isn't the way." He turned to Lila, his tone firm. "We'll speak to the boy in private."
Lila hesitated, her protective instincts flaring. "I don't think that's a good idea," she said carefully.
Clara stepped forward again, her desperation unchecked. "Please," she begged, her voice raw. "If there's even a chance… I need to know."
Jack felt the weight of their stares, the suffocating expectation. His sharp mind raced to determine the best course of action. He didn't trust these strangers, but he also couldn't afford to turn them away without learning more.
Lila looked at Jack—at Amon—her face etched with uncertainty. Finally, she nodded reluctantly. "If the boy agrees."
Jack met Clara's tear-streaked face, then Eli's piercing stare. His heart thundered in his chest, but he forced himself to nod.
"Fine," he said, his voice steady, even as his mind calculated every possibility.
Clara's breath hitched, hope flaring in her eyes. Eli's gaze remained fixed, searching for something unspoken.
As the room fell into a tense silence, Jack prepared himself for the unknown. Whatever truths lay ahead, he would face them with the same ruthless determination that had carried him this far.