Morning came to Willowridge Orphanage in the same dreary fashion it always did: the relentless clang of Miss Grayson’s bell echoing through the halls, followed by the hurried shuffle of small feet against cold wooden floors. The children moved like shadows, their faces pale and weary, their voices muted by fear and routine. There was no joy in the morning rituals, only the quiet resignation of knowing another day under Miss Grayson’s rule had begun.51Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpcjx4W9DQ5
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Elias sat at the edge of his bed, his thin frame hunched over as he laced his scuffed shoes. His dream of the night before still lingered in his mind, vivid and unsettling. The figure in the garden, cloaked in shadow, had seemed so real, its voice so familiar. Even now, as he tied the final knot in his laces, he could hear the faint echo of its words: "Come, Elias. The truth awaits."
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But whatever truth the garden held was not something Miss Grayson would ever allow him to discover. She had made it clear the night before that the garden was forbidden, and Elias knew better than to test her patience. Her punishments were swift, creative, and always aimed to leave a lasting impression.
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"Move it, Elias!" barked one of the older boys, shoving him toward the door. "Miss Grayson’ll have your hide if you’re late again."
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Elias stumbled forward, catching himself just before he fell. The other boy laughed, a hollow sound that lacked any real malice. In Willowridge, cruelty was simply a way of life, a defense mechanism that allowed the children to survive. Elias ignored him and shuffled down the hall, his mind already drifting back to the garden.
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Breakfast was the same as always: bowls of watery porridge served with stale bread. The children sat in silence, their eyes fixed on their plates as they ate. Miss Grayson stood at the head of the room, her arms crossed and her sharp eyes scanning the table. She moved with a cold efficiency, her presence a constant reminder of the consequences of disobedience.
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"Elias," she said suddenly, her voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.
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Elias’s head snapped up, his spoon clattering against the edge of his bowl. "Yes, Miss Grayson?"
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"I need you to clean the west wing this morning," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "The floors are filthy, and I expect them to shine by the time I return."
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"Yes, Miss Grayson," Elias murmured, lowering his gaze.
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"And don’t think for a second that I’ve forgotten about your little escapade near the garden," she added, her eyes narrowing. "You’re on thin ice, boy. One more step out of line, and you’ll regret it."
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Elias nodded, swallowing hard. The other children watched him with a mix of pity and relief, grateful that Miss Grayson’s attention was focused elsewhere. No one dared to speak, not while she was in the room.
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The west wing of the orphanage was rarely used, its long halls and dusty rooms a testament to the building’s age and neglect. Elias carried a bucket of soapy water and a rag as he made his way down the dimly lit corridor, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the threadbare carpet. The air was cold and damp, and the faint smell of mildew clung to the walls.
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Elias knelt on the floor and began scrubbing, his small hands moving in slow, deliberate circles. The task was tedious, but Elias didn’t mind. It gave him time to think, to lose himself in the whispers that seemed to echo through the empty hall.
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"You don’t belong here," a voice said softly.
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Elias froze, his rag hovering above the floor. He turned his head, but the hall was empty. The voice had come from nowhere and everywhere at once, a sound that seemed to seep from the walls themselves.
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"You’re better than this," the voice continued. "You’re special, Elias."
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"Who… who are you?" Elias whispered, his voice trembling.
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"You know who I am," the voice replied. "I’ve been with you all along."
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Elias’s heart raced as he dropped the rag and clutched his knees to his chest. The voice was different from the others he had heard. It wasn’t the creak of the floorboards or the groan of the furniture. It was something deeper, something darker.
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"You’re not like them," the voice said. "You’re not like the others."
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Elias shook his head, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. "I don’t understand."
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"You will," the voice promised. "Soon."
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By the time Elias finished cleaning the west wing, his arms ached and his knees were raw from kneeling on the hard floor. Miss Grayson inspected his work with her usual critical eye, her lips pressed into a thin line.
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"Acceptable," she said finally, though her tone suggested she was anything but impressed. "Now get to the laundry. I want it done before supper."
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"Yes, Miss Grayson," Elias said, his voice barely above a whisper.
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As he turned to leave, Miss Grayson grabbed his arm, her fingers digging into his skin. "And remember, boy," she said, her voice low and menacing, "I’m watching you."
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Elias nodded, his heart pounding in his chest. Miss Grayson released him with a sneer, and he hurried down the hall, his mind racing. The voice from the west wing still echoed in his ears, its words filling him with a strange mix of fear and curiosity.
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That night, as the other children slept, Elias lay awake in his bed, staring out the window at the garden. The stone’s whispers were louder now, almost impossible to ignore. They called to him, urging him to come closer, to uncover the secrets hidden within the tangled vines and brambles.
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"You’re not like them," the voice had said. "You’re special."
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Elias didn’t feel special. He felt small, lost, and utterly alone. But the voice had given him something he hadn’t felt in years: hope. Hope that there was more to his life than the cold, gray walls of the orphanage. Hope that he could escape Miss Grayson’s cruel hands and find a place where he truly belonged.
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As the moonlight bathed the garden in a pale, ghostly glow, Elias made a decision. He would return to the garden. He would speak to the stone. And he would uncover the truth, no matter the cost.
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Because the whispers were right about one thing: Elias wasn’t like the others. And deep down, he knew it.
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The tension builds as Elias begins to feel the full weight of the garden's pull and Miss Grayson’s wrath. The spirit's manipulation is growing stronger, and Elias is being drawn deeper into the darkness.
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To be continued...
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