“We’ve been breathing him in,” Damien whispers. “Every night. Every fucking night we thought we were safe.”
I don’t know what to say. Because every instinct in my body is screaming. Not just fear. But recognition. Like this isn’t the first time someone watched me sleep. Like this isn’t the first time I was marked. But I don’t say that out loud. Because the look in Damien’s eyes is already too close to feral.
He runs both hands through his hair. Paces. Then stops. “We need to go back.”
“What?”
“The chapel. I need to see it. I need—” he breaks off, tongue wetting his lips. “There’s something missing. Something I’m not seeing. And if he’s pulling us back there?—”
“You think it’s a trap.”
“I think it’s worse than that.” He lifts his gaze slowly. “I think it’s a memory.”
My stomach caves. “Whose?” I ask.
Damien’s voice is hoarse when he answers. “Mine.”
My fingers brush the edge of the chapel photo. Something cold hits the back of my neck. Not air. Not breath. Memory.
A snap of soundless candlelight. The wooden pew beneath my knees. The soot beneath my nails. A flicker of movement in the far-left corner. The boy again. Not a priest. Not a man. Just a boy. Always half-shadowed, always sitting still. His knees pulled up. His hands clasped like he was holding something small and precious.
He never looked away. Even when the others spoke. Even when the priest sang in that too-soft voice, the one that made my lungs feel wrong. Even then—he watched me. Not cruelly. Not sexually. Not the way the priest did.
The boy watched me like I was a secret. Like I was made of glass and ash and teeth.
And around him, in the stained-glass light—moths. Just a few. Pale.
Fluttering. Beating against the panes like they were trying to get inside his skin. I used to hum to myself to keep from crying. And one time—only once—I thought I heard him hum back. Not loud. Not in tune. But matching me.
My mouth goes dry. I blink. And the memory is gone.
I blink hard. Try to shake it off. But it clings. Like dust in my lungs. Like candle smoke on skin. That boy. I never put words to him before. Not out loud. Not even in my own head. Maybe because I never thought he was real. Maybe because he wasn’t, not in the way the rest of them were.
The priest’s breath, the belt behind the door, the soft lilt of hymns twisting into threats—those things were real. But the boy? He never spoke. Never moved. Just watched me hum like I was the only sound in the chapel that didn’t make him flinch. I think I called him theMoth Boy. In my head. Just once. Because that’s what I remember. The way the moths always fluttered around him—drawn to something no one else could see. Something just as broken.
God, why now?
I grip the edge of the desk and try to steady my breath. Damien’s still in the surveillance room, flipping through file folders like if he turns enough pages, the truth will snap into focus. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t need to. His energy’s loud enough to make the air ache.
My voice barely makes it out. “There was someone else there.”
He pauses.
I keep going before I lose the nerve. “Not… part of it. Not like the priest. Just a boy. He never did anything. He was just… there.”
Damien turns to me slowly. His face doesn’t change. Not at first. But something shudders behind his eyes. Like the mention of the boy hits him harder than it should. Like he knows.
But then, he nods. A beat too slow. “Could’ve been another orphan,” he says flatly. “Some of the kids weren’t listed.”
“No,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “He didn’t belong there. He didn’t look at me like the others did. He didn’t… breathe the same.” I don’t know what I mean until the words are already out.
Damien doesn’t move. Just stares at me. His throat works around a swallow. And when he finally speaks, it’s soft. Barely audible. “What did he look like?”
My stomach coils. I try to picture the boy’s face—but it’s hazy. Like the memory refuses to sharpen, as if the image was smeared in ash before I ever saw it clearly.
“I don’t know. Brown hair, maybe? Pale. Always hunched like he didn’t want to be seen. But I always… felt him. Watching me. Like I was…”
I stop. Damien tilts his head. “Like you were what?”
