I don't know how long I've been here. Days? Weeks? Months? Time doesn't matter anymore. All that matters is the silence that surrounds me. It's suffocating, like the walls of this place were built not to protect, but to close in on you until you can barely breathe. The orphanage. A forgotten place. I was abandoned here. No family, no name, no reason for existing—just another soul thrown into the abyss of a broken world.
The other children—they don't look at me. They never have. Maybe it's because I'm different, or maybe they just don't care. It's all the same to me. I learned quickly that emotions don't matter here. If you show weakness, you become a target. The staff, cruel and indifferent, are the worst of them. They're not here to care for us; they're here to break us.
I hear their footsteps before I see them—heavy, slow, deliberate. I roll onto my side, facing the cold stone wall. I don't want them to see my eyes. If they do, they'll see how much I hate them. They'll know that I'm just like the others here. Hollow.
"You're lucky, Draeven," the voice says. It's Sister Maren, the one who runs the orphanage. "We don't feed you to the rats, like we did with the last one. Don't forget that."
She says it with a smile. The kind of smile that makes my skin crawl, like she's proud of what she's done. Her words are the only comfort I get from this place. It reminds me that I'm still alive. Still breathing. But that's all it is—breathing. I don't feel alive. I feel like a machine, my heart ticking only because the world hasn't stopped to crush me underfoot.
I try to ignore her, but she doesn't leave. I hear her heavy breathing behind me, the sound of her shoes scraping against the stone floor, then the faint scent of the oils she uses to hide the stench of her greed.
"I don't need your pity," I mutter. My voice is hoarse, raw from the nights spent screaming into the emptiness. I don't look up at her, don't show any weakness. Not anymore. If I do, she'll see it. She'll take it. They always do.
She laughs, a hollow sound that fills the room, but not in a comforting way. It's almost like she's laughing at a joke I'll never understand. Then, just as quickly, her laughter dies, and she turns on her heel.
"Remember," she says, before walking away, "you're here because you're nothing. Don't forget your place."
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. The room grows colder. I curl my knees to my chest, my hands clutching the frayed edges of my blanket, as if it could protect me from everything in this godforsaken place. I try to push everything out of my head—everything that hurts, everything that I've lost. But there's no escaping it. Not here.
The others—they don't care. They never cared. They won't ever care. I know it. They look at me like I'm a ghost—if they look at me at all. Some avoid me. Others just pretend I'm not there. I don't know if it's because they fear me or if they simply don't have the strength to confront their own agony. I used to think I'd be different—better than the rest—but now I wonder if I'm the same. If I'm just another broken soul, destined to wither away in this place. Or maybe worse: maybe I'm the only one who sees it. The others? They just hide their pain better. They're better at pretending.
I hear them sometimes. The whispers in the dark, the soft voices of the older children. They tell stories—stories of knights and kings, of war and glory. The kinds of stories they used to tell before the hope faded from their eyes. Sometimes, I think the walls themselves whisper to me. They tell me that it's pointless, that I'll never escape. That all these dreams I have—of leaving, of being someone—are nothing but fantasies. But I don't believe them. I refuse to. Because if I start to believe that, then this place has won. And I won't let it.
I think about the outside world sometimes. What's out there? Is there anything? I don't know. I've never seen it. But sometimes, in the moments before I fall asleep, when the flickering candlelight casts shadows across the room, I imagine it. The sun on my face. The wind in my hair. A life outside these walls. Maybe it's something worth fighting for.
I push myself up onto my feet, wincing as the sharp pain from my ribs reminds me of the last time I tried to fight back. I grip the edge of my bed for balance. The room is silent now, except for the distant scurrying of rats behind the walls. I can hear the muffled sounds of the others—a few children crying, some whispering, and one or two even laughing. It's almost sickening. I can't relate to them anymore. Not since I realized what this place truly is.
I remember what it felt like when I first got here. I was younger then—just a boy, confused, and lost. They told me my parents had abandoned me. That I was nothing. That I should just be grateful for the scraps they threw at me. But the truth was simpler: I didn't have parents. I didn't have a family. All I had was this cold room, this bed, and this silence.
But now, I see things differently. I know the truth now. Sister Maren, the headmaster, she's not here to help us. None of them are. They don't want to save us. They want to break us down, piece by piece, until we're too weak to fight back. The truth is, I'm not the only one in this room who's broken. We all are. We all share the same scars, the same wounds that no one ever sees. The difference is that I'm tired of pretending. I'm tired of feeling like I don't matter. And if I'm going to survive this, I need to stop pretending too.
I want to leave. I want to break free, to find something—anything—that tells me I'm worth something. But I can't just run away. Not yet. I don't have the strength. I don't know if I ever will.
But maybe that's what this place wants. It wants me to break. It wants me to give up.
And maybe that's the greatest lie they ever told.
The clock in the corner of the room ticks, its rhythmic sound almost mocking in its steadiness. Each tick a reminder that time is moving forward, that life outside these walls continues, but not here. Not for us. In this place, time has no meaning. The days bleed into one another, indistinguishable. I could stay here for the rest of my life and never know the difference. The same stone floors, the same bars on the windows, the same broken promises. The same silence that weighs heavier each day.
I stretch, my bones aching from the position I've been curled in for so long. The blanket I clutch to my chest is thin, threadbare, and offers no comfort. It's just fabric. A reminder of how little I've been given, how little I've ever had. I let my hand drop from the blanket, resting at my side, feeling the coldness of the stone beneath me. It's a kind of numbness that seeps into my soul, little by little. But I can't let myself feel too much. If I do, I know I'll crack. I can feel the cracks starting already. They've been there for a while now, like the fractures in the glass that never heal, always waiting to break open completely.
In the corner of the room, one of the older children stirs. I can't remember his name. They all blur together after a while. They all look the same to me—eyes dull, hands thin, faces pinched from hunger. His eyes flicker in the dim light, searching the room for something. His gaze settles on me for a moment, but he quickly looks away, pretending he didn't see me. He doesn't want to get involved, and I can't blame him. None of us want to get involved. We've learned long ago that you don't form connections here. You don't trust anyone. Not even yourself.
Sister Maren's face reappears in my mind, her mocking smile. I can't escape her. I can't escape any of them. The staff, the children—they all move around me like shadows, and I'm just here, standing still, waiting. Waiting for something that may never come. Waiting for someone to save me, or for the courage to save myself. But that's the problem, isn't it? I'm not sure if I even want to be saved anymore. I used to think I could change something, that if I worked hard enough, if I kept my head down, things would get better. But they never do. No matter how much I endure, it doesn't stop the world from being broken.
I wonder if there's a point to all this. I wonder if anyone's ever found a way out. Or if, like me, they've just given up. The thought gnaws at the edges of my mind, sinking deeper with each passing day. I can't stay here forever. But what am I supposed to do? Where am I supposed to go?
There's a glimmer of something, though, something deep inside me. A flicker of a thought, a sense of something I used to believe. It's almost laughable now, the thought that I could ever escape this place. But the idea won't go away. It sits with me, heavy and uncomfortable, like a weight I don't know how to lift. Maybe I've been looking at it wrong all this time. Maybe the escape I've been searching for is not just a physical one. Maybe it's something deeper. Maybe it's a fight I need to have with myself, with what I've become.
I close my eyes, squeezing my fists tight against the mattress. The air in the room feels heavier now, pressing against my chest. I can't breathe like this anymore. The walls are closing in, but I'll be damned if I let them break me. Not now. Not yet.
I force myself to sit up, the muscles in my legs protesting with each movement. There's a voice inside me, a quiet whisper, urging me to stand. To get up. To move.
And so, I do.
The air is thick, stifling, as though the very walls are pressing in, not just around me but into me, shaping me with their unrelenting weight. I sit motionless, but inside I am a storm—raging, twisting, clawing at the edges of my own mind. There's a sound I can't escape, constant and relentless, like the echo of my own despair. It's the ticking of that damned clock. Every tick is a slap in the face, a reminder that time moves, but for us, it's a cruel illusion.
I used to believe time was something to be measured, something to be controlled. But now, I see it as a chain. Each second binds me tighter to this wretched place. I wonder if anyone ever truly escapes. Or if the act of leaving is simply an illusion, a hollow gesture to satisfy the emptiness. What does it matter if I leave? The orphanage is only a symbol. The real prison is not the stone walls, the locked doors, or the suffocating silence. No, it's the years of hollowed-out existence they carve into you. It's the way you're taught not to feel, not to hope. How could I escape when I don't even know who I am anymore?
I look out of the small window, the bars casting thin shadows across the cold stone floor. The sky outside is darkening, the fading light turning the world into a blur of muted colors. It's the same view every day—nothing changes, except the sky. The sun sets, and the moon rises, indifferent to the suffering inside these walls. I wonder if they even know we're here, in this little corner of the world. Are we forgotten? Or are we simply too insignificant to matter?
I stand, slowly, deliberately, as if the very act of rising might somehow break the chains that hold me to this place. I can feel the weakness in my legs, the strain of holding myself upright, but I force myself to move. Every step feels like wading through molasses, each one a struggle. And yet, the act of walking is the closest thing to freedom I've known in a long time. For a fleeting moment, I imagine what it would be like to leave this place behind. To step into the unknown, to break free of the suffocating routine that has governed my life for as long as I can remember. But then I feel it—cold dread, a sharp, painful realization that I don't know how to live outside these walls. I don't know who I am beyond this place.
The door creaks open behind me, and I don't need to turn around to know it's her. Sister Maren. Her presence always fills the room with a cold, oppressive energy. She steps in, her shoes clicking against the floor, every movement deliberate, every word calculated. "Up again, Draeven?" Her voice cuts through the silence, brittle and sharp, like the crack of a whip.
I don't answer. What's the point? She doesn't care. She never has. She's not here to talk to me, not really. She's here to remind me of my place. Of my worth, or lack thereof.
Her eyes move over me, cold and appraising, and I know what she sees—nothing but a boy who has failed, a shadow of what could have been. A boy who no longer believes in anything, not in hope, not in redemption, not even in the possibility of change. And maybe that's true. Maybe I have failed. Maybe I've allowed this place to consume me, to define me. I can feel the bitterness rising in me, a familiar taste, sharp and metallic. I bite down on it, forcing it back into the pit of my stomach. What would she want me to say anyway? "Please, let me out"? It would never work. She's just a cog in the machine, and I am nothing but a broken part of it.
I can feel my hands trembling, the frustration welling up like an ocean inside me. I clench my fists, willing the shaking to stop. The last thing I need is to show her any weakness. Not now. Not when I'm so close to breaking through the wall that's been built around me. I can't let it stop here. I can't let myself crumble like this.
She sighs, a noise filled with so many layers of disdain that it stings. "You're wasting your time," she says, her voice low, almost a whisper. "All this thinking. It won't change anything. You're just like the others."
I want to scream at her, to tell her she's wrong, to tell her she doesn't know me. But I don't. Because I know, deep down, that she's right. I am just like the others. And I've been just like them for so long, I've forgotten what it means to be anything else. What does it mean to be more than this? I don't even know anymore.
I turn away from her, toward the window, where the night is starting to fall in earnest. Somewhere beyond the horizon, beyond the stone walls and the bars, there's a world I've never known. A world I've only ever heard of in stories and dreams.
For a brief, irrational moment, I wish I could step outside these walls and just disappear. To vanish into the night and never look back.
But I know better. I can't escape. Not yet. Not until I know who I am
The darkness outside seems to creep in, consuming the corners of the room. It's not just the fading light from the window, it's the kind of shadow that runs deeper than nightfall—it's the kind of shadow that resides in your chest, the one that feeds off doubt and whispers that you'll never be enough. And I've heard those whispers so often, they've begun to sound like my own voice.
I glance at the cold, lifeless bed where I've slept for what feels like a thousand lifetimes. The sheets are stiff, unwelcoming, like the entire orphanage itself. It's a prison of routine, of monotony, where I'm expected to fall in line, to silence my thoughts and obey without question. What if I could leave it all behind? What if I could step into the unknown and be something more, someone more?
But then the fear claws its way back in—fear of the unknown, of the possibility that I might be nothing more than a lost, wandering soul, without direction, without purpose. The thought is terrifying. It's the kind of fear that paralyzes, that keeps you locked in place no matter how loudly you scream for freedom.
I turn my gaze to the floor, as if searching for an answer in the cracks of the stone. There's nothing there, only dust and the ghosts of a thousand footsteps that have passed through here before me. None of them stayed. None of them made it out. I wonder if I'll be like them. I wonder if I'll fade into the background of this place, another forgotten child, lost to time and cruelty.
But even as the thought crosses my mind, a small voice inside me—quiet and barely audible—rises above the cacophony of doubt. It's a voice that sounds like a distant memory, a fleeting moment of hope that I haven't let go of completely. Maybe not all is lost. Maybe there's more to you than this place thinks. Maybe you're not just another broken orphan.
I shake my head, trying to dismiss it, trying to silence the foolishness of hope. It's a dangerous thing, hope. It's a lie, a promise that can never be kept, especially not in a world like this. The longer you cling to it, the more painful the fall when it shatters.
"Draeven." The voice cuts through the silence, jarring me from my thoughts.
I stiffen, already knowing who it is. Sister Maren's presence is like a shadow itself, always looming, always watching. I turn slowly, my body tense, my fists still clenched, as though by some miracle I could fight off the wave of helplessness that threatens to crash over me.
She stands in the doorway, her posture rigid, her eyes sharp and calculating, as if she can see through me, past the walls I've built around myself. "You think too much, boy." Her words are cold, clipped, without a hint of empathy. "It will get you nowhere."
I want to say something, something sharp, something that would make her think twice, but the words catch in my throat. I can't even remember what it is I would say anymore. The anger inside me has calcified into a hollow ache, and I feel its weight more than I feel anything else. It's easier to remain silent, easier to give her nothing to work with. She can't hurt what she can't reach.
"You're just like the others," she continues, her voice almost too quiet now. "Full of potential, yes, but wasted. You'll be forgotten by tomorrow. Or perhaps you already are."
I want to scream at her, tell her how wrong she is, how much I'm more than this place, how I refuse to be forgotten. But it feels pointless. No one here understands. No one ever will.
Instead, I close my eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, trying to find something—anything—that will help me keep my grip on reality. And as I exhale, the smallest spark of defiance stirs in the pit of my stomach. Maybe I am broken. Maybe I have been for a long time. But I don't have to stay that way.
She can't take that from me. Not yet.
I open my eyes and meet her gaze. "I'm not like the others," I say, my voice steady. I can hear the unfamiliarity of it, the way it shakes with something I can't quite name. But it's there, undeniable. "And I won't be forgotten."
For a moment, Sister Maren's expression flickers. There's a brief flash of something—surprise? Amusement? But it's gone before I can fully process it, replaced with the same cold, distant look. "We'll see," she says, her voice icy. Then, without another word, she turns and walks away.
I don't watch her leave. Instead, I turn my attention back to the window, my gaze drawn to the darkening horizon. The storm inside me hasn't quieted, but now, there's something else there, a flicker of clarity that pushes through the chaos.
Maybe it's true that I don't know who I am. Maybe it's true that I've spent too long trapped in this place, in this web of lies and shadows. But I'm starting to realize that there's something deeper beneath it all. Something waiting for me to uncover it.
And maybe, just maybe, I'm ready to find out what that is.
The silence after she leaves feels thicker, heavier, like it's suffocating me, wrapping itself around my chest. I want to push it away, but there's nowhere to turn. I don't even know if I'm trying to escape it or just waiting for it to drown me. There's a kind of strange comfort in it too. A numbness that's always been there, always held me in place, like a vice on my chest, pressing down, making sure I never rise above the dust that's settled in the corners of this place.
But there's something about this moment—something about the way her words hit me—that makes me question everything. I've been walking through this place, this endless cycle of pain, for as long as I can remember. I've never been more than a shadow here. Just a face in the crowd, a name on a list.
I'm starting to wonder if it has to be this way.
She says I'll be forgotten. And maybe I will. Maybe that's my fate, to be lost in the world like so many others. But what if that's not all there is? What if I don't have to accept this? What if, for once, I could stop being a passive observer in my own life and actually start living it?
The thought makes my stomach twist. It's a dangerous idea. It feels almost impossible, like I'm trying to grasp at smoke—slipping through my fingers, out of reach. But the more I think about it, the more I feel something shift inside me.
What if I didn't have to wait for something to happen? What if I could be the one to make it happen?
I push myself up from the bed, moving toward the window, the one thing that feels real in this prison. The glass is cold against my palm, but the sky beyond it is something else entirely. The sky is full of possibilities. The storm is rolling in, clouds dark and heavy, as though the world itself is preparing for something monumental. I wonder if it's the same for me—if the storm inside of me is just the beginning of something bigger, something I can't yet see but feel pulsing in my bones.
The thought terrifies me, and yet it's the only thing that makes sense anymore.
What if I stepped outside this cage, broke free from the chains that have held me for so long? What would happen then? Would I become something more, or would I be crushed under the weight of it all, just like every other poor soul who thought they could escape their fate?
I wish I could say I have the answers. But I don't. I only have this—this gnawing hunger inside me, the need to find something, anything, to prove that I'm not just some forgotten orphan. That I have meaning. That I have purpose.
I turn away from the window, a strange sense of clarity beginning to settle into my chest, though I can't name it. It's not hope, not exactly. It's something else—something raw and visceral, like the deep ache of a wound that refuses to heal. But I'm starting to think that's okay.
Maybe wounds don't heal until you face them, until you tear them open and let them bleed. Maybe that's the only way to be free of the poison they carry.
I stand there, silent, as the storm rages outside, and for the first time in a long while, I don't feel quite so alone. The world might not care about me. The orphanage certainly doesn't. But something inside me is beginning to stir. It's a seed, small and fragile, but it's there. It's alive.
And maybe that's enough for now.