Page 7 of Mourning Wings

Hereyes widen in fear. “Whatdo we do?”

Ihesitate, torn between curiosity and caution. “Let’skeep moving,”Ifinally say, my voice steady despite the uncertaintygnawing at me.Partof me wants to go into the forest and ask her what she wants.

Wecontinue walking, the woman’s gaze burning into my back until we round a bend, and she disappears from view.Buther presence lingers, and my mind races with questions, suspicions swirling like a storm.Isshe part of whatever is happening in that house?

Oncewe pass the gate,Ipull out my phone and call anUber.Thewait feels interminable, every rustle and distant sound putting me even more on edge.Isabelstands close, her eyes scanning the surroundings, as if she too can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

Weexchange a glance.Tonighthas been too strange and unsettling to part ways.

TheUberarrives, and we slide into the back seat, the tension in my bones easing just a fraction as the car pulls away from the mansion.

We’reheaded toIsabel’splace, whereI’llbe sleeping tonight.

Whenwe first left the orphanage, we shared a small apartment next to the university.Itwas cramped, but it was ours, a sanctuary where we felt safe.Sincegraduating and getting jobs at opposite ends of the city, we’ve had to adjust to living apart for the first time.Thetransition wasn’t easy.Thefirst few months, we spent almost every night together, refusing to be apart.

Now, we do it less often, finding a new rhythm to our separate lives.Butafter a night like this, there’s no wayI’mleavingIsabelalone.Thememory of that basement, of what happened in the bedroom with that creep, the unsettling presence of the woman in the mask—it’s too much to face alone.

Wearrive atIsabel’sapartment, and she fumbles with her keys.Onceinside, the familiar surroundings bring a sense of comfort.Idrop my purse by the door and followIsabelto theliving room, where she collapses onto the couch, exhaling a long, shaky breath.

Isit beside her, our shoulders touching, a silent reassurance that we’re here together. “Youokay?”Iask softly, my eyes searching hers.

Shenods, though her expression is still troubled. “Ijust can’t stop thinking about what happened.Howmuch further would he have taken it if you hadn’t found us?Whowas that woman, and why was she watching us?” she asks, now rambling.

“Idon’t know,”Iadmit. “Butwe need to be careful.There’ssomething suspicious going on.”

Isabelleans into me, her head resting on my shoulder. “I’mglad you’re here.”

“I’mnot going anywhere,”Ipromise, wrapping my arm around her. “We’llfigure this out together, just like we always have.”

Thenight stretches on, and the fear and confusion gradually give way to exhaustion.Wemove to her bedroom, the familiarity of sharing a space bringing me a small measure of peace.

Aswe lie there in the dark,Ican feelIsabel’sbreath evening out, her body relaxing next to mine.Tootired to change my clothes,Icurl my body around hers, bringing my front flush to her back.

That’swhenIfeel something poking me through my skirt.

Ireach into my pocket, and my fingers snag around a chain.WhenIpull it out, the sight sends a jolt through me.

Inarrow my eyes, examining the necklace.It’sintricate, delicate, with a small, pink butterfly pendant dangling from it.It’sthe same one the masked woman was wearing around her neck in the basement.Myheart pounds in my chest asItry to make sense of it.

Ishake my head, unable to provide any answers as my fingers close around the necklace.

Thisis hers.Butwhy would she give it to me?

Howdid she even put it in my pocket without me noticing?

Onething is clear: the chain is a clue, a connection to the masked woman and whatever secrets she holds.Iwill cherish it, keep it safe untilIfigure out what it means.

3

VALERIA

16 YEARS OLD

Iclutch the edge of the wooden banister, my knuckles white asIstrain to seeCamilaone last time.Mychest tightens, a sharp pain spreading through me as the heavy front doors of the orphanage creak open.Ifeel like my heart might shatter into a million pieces.

“No!”Icry out, my voice breaking.Itry to run after her, butSisterAgnes’sfirm hands pull me back.Hergrip is gentle yet unyielding, andItwist in her hold, tears streaming down my face. “Please, don’t let her go!”

Camilaturns at the door, her small face pale, eyes wide with the same fear and sadness tearing me apart.Shelooks so tiny standing there—even though she’s a year older than me—her suitcase in hand.Thestern-looking couple is distinctly cold.Thehusband’s face is serious, with sharp, angular features and piercing gray eyes that seem to scrutinize everything around him.Hiswife has perfectly styled blonde hair and a statuesque figure.Herpale blue eyes are icy, her expression perpetuallydistant, as if she’s preoccupied with something more important than what’s in front of her.

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