Except this time, I know what it is. It’s not a rat, no. Or a reflection from the stained glass windows. It’s a woman. My heart stops. I falter my steps as I stare directly into the golden eyes of a softly glowing red-headed woman leaning against a desk.She’s glowing?She has a slight frown on her face as she looks at me, her brow slightly raised with shock on her features. My jaw drops, quickly changing from confusion to awe of her beauty. Her face is scattered with freckles, and her red hair is full of luxurious curls that cascade down her arms, stopping at her waist. Her nose is slightly upturned, while her lips are perfectly pursed and full. She isperfection.I go to take a step toward her, feeling myself instantly drawn to her. There’s no rhyme or reason for the pull, but it’s almost as though my body moves of its own volition.
“What is it?” I hear behind me, startling back into reality. I glance over to see the priest’s eyebrows pinched together in judgment. I have no words, completely struck back by what IthinkI saw. “Words, Miss Gates. Use them,” he reprimands me. I look back into the classroom to see it empty.
My brows knit together as I mumble, “Nothing, sorry.” He replies, but I’m already lost in my thoughts, hearing nothing. I shake my head and proceed forward as I attempt to process the beauty of the woman I just saw in that classroom. But why was she glowing? Why did she feel… familiar? I climb up the stairs, settling the reasoning on the reflection of the old windows for the glow on her body.
Chapter 2
Mildred
September 2nd
Ivanish in a flash the moment the girl with glasses glances back. I notice her brows knit together, a touch of confusion playing on her face. I draw a shaky breath, my hand clasping my chest where my heart had once beat. The familiar sting of longing rang through me… It’s been an eternity since I’ve felt my own heart beating.
I could swear it’s her, or perhaps I imagined her. No, this is different. Different altogether. Time just stops, as if time itself is holding its breath too. Her brown doe eyes feel as though they are staring right through me, into a soul I have long left behind.
She gives a soft shake of her head and continues on, Warren Brown close on her heels. I float after them, keeping her in sight as she ascends the staircase, a restless urge gnawing at me to see her safely returned to her quarters. He suddenly glances back sharply; he cannot see me, but I am certain he feels me.
His harsh stare lingers on the hallway, and for a moment, it feels as though his eyes meet mine before he swiftly lowers them to the stairs ahead of him. I clench my jaw before pivoting back into the classroom, where I had been rummaging.
Giving the place a once-over, I try to remember what I was after, but every thought drifts back to her… warm, soft, and consuming. Why was she down here at all? How did Warren happen upon her so precisely? Most of all, why did I allow myself to be seen?
I pinch the bridge of my nose with a soft groan. Smart move, very clever, utterly idiotic if I do say so myself. Shesawme. I was invisible, completely unseen, all the while watching her wander the halls and intothat tunnel. I caught her slipping that old photograph of me into her hand, the one I had nearly forgotten existed. It feels like another lifetime, another face altogether. Yet as I watched her, it was as if life had stirred awake within me once more.
I inhale deeply as a faint tremor runs through me and a tear slips down my cheek. She never said a thing, but for the first time in what feels like forever, I felt seen. How can that be? It can’t be.
I begin to drift backward, drawn to follow her, but I pause once more. I’d only make things dreadfully complicated. Warren has his sights on her; that much is clear. But what if he knew she’d glimpsed me?
I swallow against the lump rising in my throat as a flicker of that day passes through my mind. My hands shake a touch as I lift my chin, forcing composure while a dull ache blooms in my stomach at the thought of keeping away from that brown-eyed girl. It’s for the best. It must be.
Chapter 3
Grace
September 2nd
Imake my way to class running more than a few minutes late. I got lost in the moment down in that basement. I didn't even realize how quickly time had passed.
I rush through the puddles as the fall rain pours over my leather jacket, soaking my jeans. I swing the doors open, slipping into the building. I grab the wall as I try to keep myself from slipping on the vinyl flooring. My boots squeak as I make my way around the corner to my next class. I place my hand on the knob and pull. It’s locked.Great.I hang my head backwards, close my eyes, and groan.
I look through the paneled glass, trying to make eye contact with someone when the professor glances over. I point to the door handle with a pleading expression. The teacher subtly shakes their head no and turns their face back toward the other students. I swallow my frustration as I nod once. I’m certainly leaving a great impression on the faculty so far.
Heading down the hall, I decide to wait out the rain by exploring the library. I glance into the classrooms, where students are aptly paying attention to their lectures as I pass by. Damn, everyone here really does give their full effort. Then there’s me. Don’t get me wrong, I was getting A’s and B’s at my last school. I was proud of those grades, but the spark in me here?Fleeting.
These hallways are void of decoration, not even a cross in sight, which surprises me. Tall, arched windows are evenly spaced between columns of wooden beams. It’s fairly gloomy in here besides the soft, warm lights dangling from the ceilings; everything is drab.
I approach the big wooden doors of the library and pull hard. When the doors hardly budge, I peer up. These doors are large and made of a beautiful wood, stained a warm red, almost brown. Angels are carved on the surface, but they don’t look angelic. They are carved with harsh edges and sour expressions on their faces. Big wings are sculpted twice the size of the angels, floating around various flowers and clouds. I tilt my head as I try to observe more of what I assume is supposed to be a representation of Heaven’s gates. But, all of it just feels… wrong.
I exhale a heavy breath as I pull with more force and finally crack the heavy wooden doors open. As I squeeze inside, I gasp at the size of the room. There are rows and rows of books, stairs leading up to four different levels of histories, fantasies, you name it. There’s a large common area full of long tables, each with a tiny green desk lamp radiating warm light. There are a few students at the tables silently studying, reading, and some even napping on their backpacks.
I inhale deeply, smelling the ancient books, and find myself smiling for the first time on this campus. Something about being in here feels safe. I pull a random book off the shelf, flipping through the worn pages ofWuthering Heights. I smile at its familiar tragedy. The grief that consumed me as I read their love story, the comfort I felt in its pain.
How many lives are we fortunate to live through because of these stories? To be surrounded by so many endless stories of hopes and dreams, knowing someone within these pages has felt the emotions I have and continue to feel iseverything. Whether it's the desperation to fit in or something as specific as the resentment toward a father figure like mine. The feeling is irreplaceable. It shows us we aren’t alone. Literature gives a door for community, a chance to be surrounded by empathy in a cloaked world of devastating selfishness.
I continue to look around in awe of the space, finding an empty corner table in the back. I place my bag on the back of a chair and settle down onto the hard seat. I exhale a heavy sigh and roll the tension frommy shoulders that I have been subconsciously holding since my first encounter with the priest of the campus. He was certainly menacing.
In the photos of him online, his smile always appeared radiant and even warm. But in person? I felt my skin prickle in fear in remembrance of being under his gaze. His eyes were beady, almost snakelike. Alongside the fury radiating off of him for being down in the lower level, I instantly knew I would not want to receive another warning from him. I shake off the chills that race across my skin from the memory. I was more afraid of him than the woman that I saw. Is that really shocking? I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to find any reasonable excuse for the glow. I must have been paranoid from being in the basement. Maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me. Maybe I am as fucked up as my father thinks I am.
I run my fingers through my damp hair, leaning back, and then rocking on the edges of the chair legs. There is a part of me that believes the words my father has flung at me over time, especially since my mother passed away. My heart clenches at the thought of her.
