The iron gates of St. Helena's Catholic Orphanage groaned as they shut behind her, sealing her fate within its cold, looming walls. The building was old, the stone exterior darkened by years of rain and decay. Gargoyles perched on the roof, their hollow eyes staring down at her like silent judges. Nine-year-old Grace Langley stood motionless, clutching the small bag of belongings she had been given—nothing more than a worn-out dress, a tattered Bible, and her father's rosary. It still smelled like him, like home, and she held it to her chest as if it could anchor her in this strange, unwelcoming place. The nun beside her, Sister Beatrice, led her inside without a word. The air smelled of wax, dust, and something sterile, as if it had been scrubbed clean of any warmth. The long hallway stretched before her, lined with wooden doors that held the whispers of other forgotten children. Grace's heart pounded as she was taken to the dormitory. The room was vast, rows of narrow beds covered with stiff, gray sheets. Other girls, some younger, some older, sat on their beds, braiding each other's hair or whispering secrets. But when Grace entered, everything stopped. Their eyes found her immediately—wide, curious, and then... wary. It did not feel like a place of refuge. It felt like a place of penance. The nuns did not look at her with pity. They looked at her with something else. "She's the one," one whispered as she walked past. "The cursed child." "Possessed by something unholy." "She has the devil's touch. I heard she brought something back from the dead." They thought she couldn't hear. She always heard. The Mother Superior, a gaunt woman with sharp eyes that had long forgotten kindness, finally spoke. "You will learn discipline here, Grace." She didn't answer. --- The dormitory smelled of old sheets and candle wax. Rows of small, iron-framed beds stretched out beneath a massive crucifix. The other girls watched her in silence, some whispering behind their hands, some staring openly, waiting. Grace climbed into the bed assigned to her. She didn't pray. She didn't close her eyes. She just lay there, waiting for the dark. But the dark was never empty. She had been here only a few hours, but the nightmare found her anyway. It always did. The faceless figures. The whispers in a language she didn't understand. The sound of chains rattling in a place that had no chains. And this time… something new. A hand. Cold and skeletal, brushing against her cheek. She opened her mouth to scream— And she woke up screaming. The dorm erupted into chaos. The other girls shrieked and tumbled from their beds. Candles flickered wildly, the shadows stretching across the walls. Footsteps thundered down the hall. The nuns burst into the room, robes flowing like dark clouds. Grace was shaking, sweat trickling down her back. She clutched her blankets, breathless. One of the girls sobbed, pointing at her. "She—she was speaking in tongues!" "I was not," Grace gasped, still shaking. "She was writhing," another girl added, clutching a rosary. "Like something was inside her." The whispers grew. Evil. Cursed. Witch. Possessed. The Mother Superior's gaze was like ice. "You will fast for three days. You will pray until your soul is clean." She didn't give Grace a choice. She had already judged her. And that was the night the rumors began.
By morning, it was everywhere. Whispers slithered through the orphanage like snakes, spreading from one mouth to another, twisting and coiling until the story became something monstrous. "She's cursed." "She screams at night because the devil speaks to her." "She's possessed." "Don't go near her—she'll put a spell on you." The girls in the dormitory avoided her like she carried the plague. Even the younger children, who didn't fully understand the rumors, learned to keep their distance. They flinched when she walked past, hiding their rosaries behind their backs, muttering silent prayers under their breath. Grace Langley, the girl who once clung to her faith like a lifeline, was now the orphanage's witch. And the nuns? They didn't just believe the rumors—they fueled them. It started with forced prayer. Every morning, she was made to kneel in the chapel while the others ate breakfast, her knees digging into the cold stone floor. The sisters would stand around her, their voices rising in desperate chants of purification, urging her to repent. "Confess your sins, child." "Renounce the darkness that clings to you." "You must be cleansed." She kept her head bowed, lips pressed together in silent defiance. Because what was the point? Who was she even praying to? A God who had ignored her cries? Who had let her father suffer, let her be abandoned, let these people treat her like something unholy? She pretended to pray. She moved her lips, whispered empty words, just to make them leave her alone. But she never meant them. She never believed them. And when she was forced to fast, she pretended that too. The fasting was meant to purify her, to starve the evil out of her body. She was given nothing but water for days at a time, while the other children ate their fill. Her stomach twisted in agony, a constant gnawing ache that never went away. Some nights, she curled up in bed, pressing her hands over her ribs, trying to ignore the sharp pangs of hunger. But hunger wasn't the worst part. The worst part was the isolation. She was never allowed to eat with the others. She wasn't allowed to join their games, their lessons, their prayers. When she walked into a room, the girls would scatter like frightened birds, whispering behind their hands. "She's evil." "She doesn't belong here." "She should have died with her father." She wanted to scream at them. Tell them they were wrong. Tell them she wasn't cursed, wasn't possessed, wasn't the monster they wanted her to be. But deep down, a small voice whispered: What if they're right? What if there really was something wrong with her? What if she was cursed? The doubt festered inside her like an open wound, raw and bleeding. She didn't pray anymore. She didn't even want to pray anymore. Because no one was listening. -- One afternoon, she was sent to the chapel for another round of "purification." The candles flickered against the stained glass windows, casting eerie shadows along the walls. The Mother Superior stood near the altar, watching as Grace knelt before the crucifix. "Pray," she ordered. Grace stared at the floor, silent. "Pray," the woman repeated, voice colder this time. Grace clenched her fists. "No." A heavy silence fell over the room. The Mother Superior's face darkened, but Grace didn't care. "I said—" "There's no point," Grace cut her off, lifting her chin. "No one's listening." The Mother Superior's expression twisted into something unreadable. "You do not mean that." "I do." The words tasted bitter on her tongue, but they were the truth. "I prayed," she continued, voice rising. "I prayed when my father was sick. I begged God to help him. I begged Him to save him." She laughed, but it was hollow, empty. "And what did He do? Nothing. He let him die. He let me end up here. He let all of you call me a witch. So why should I pray? Why should I believe in someone who doesn't even care?" A sharp slap cracked through the air, stinging her cheek. Grace barely flinched. The Mother Superior loomed over her, fury blazing in her aged eyes. "You are lost," she said quietly. "But you will find your way again. Even if we must drag you back to the light." Grace stared at her, unblinking. She didn't argue. Didn't fight. Because what was the point? She had already lost everything. --- Days turned into weeks. The bullying only got worse. The other girls took pleasure in tormenting her, whispering cruel words when the nuns weren't looking. "Witch." "Devil's child." "You should have died too." One girl, Mary, shoved her in the hallway one evening. Grace stumbled but didn't fall. Mary's lips curled in disgust. "You think you're better than us, don't you?" Grace said nothing. "She doesn't cry," another girl sneered. "Maybe witches don't have feelings." A third girl leaned in, voice dripping with mockery. "Or maybe she saves her tears for the devil." Laughter. Snickers. A hand yanked her hair. Another shoved her shoulder. Grace stood there, staring at them. She didn't fight back. Didn't flinch. She just let it happen. Because what was the point? She was alone. No one would defend her. No one would stop them. This was her life now. And God? God wasn't going to save her. --- That night, as she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, a single thought drifted through her mind. If God wasn't going to save her… Then maybe she had to save herself.
Grace Langley was only nine, but she was smart enough to know that if she stayed here, she would die. Maybe not physically, but the person she was—the girl who once believed, who once had hope—she would cease to exist. So she did the only thing she could think of. She tried to escape. The first time, she waited until the nuns were busy with evening prayers. The iron gates weren't locked yet, and she slipped past the chapel, heart pounding so hard she thought it would burst. She ran. Barefoot, her tiny feet barely making a sound against the cold stone floor. The gate was right there. Freedom was right there. But before she could reach it, someone grabbed her wrist—strong, calloused fingers digging into her skin. Sister Margaret. The woman's face twisted in fury as she yanked Grace back. "You think you can run from God, little girl?" she hissed. "There is nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide." Grace didn't cry. She didn't beg. She just stared at her, silent and empty. She was locked in the cellar for two days after that. No food, just water. Punishment. But it didn't stop her. The second time, she tried the back entrance where the deliveries came in. Caught. The third time, she tried climbing over the garden wall. Caught. Every time she failed, the punishments grew worse. The fasting, the forced prayers, the isolation. The more she struggled, the tighter the chains became. The Mother Superior once told her, "There is no life for you beyond these walls." And for a while, Grace almost believed her. Until he appeared. --- She was twelve when she saw him for the first time. It was a cold evening. The wind howled through the orphanage courtyard, whispering secrets only the night could understand. Grace sat on the stone bench, staring up at the sky, watching the stars flicker behind the clouds. Then—a movement. A shadow along the iron gates. At first, she thought she was imagining it. No one ever came here, and if they did, it wasn't for her. But then, she saw him. A boy. He stood just outside the gate, half-hidden in the dark, his hands tucked into the pockets of a worn-out coat. His hair was messy, a dark halo around his sharp face. He wasn't much older than her—maybe thirteen or fourteen. But it was his eyes that caught her. They weren't kind, like the priests' pretended to be. They weren't full of fear, like the other children's. They were piercing. Watchful. Curious. For the first time in three years, someone looked at her not like she was cursed… but like she was a puzzle he wanted to understand. Grace didn't move. Didn't speak. Neither did he. They just stared at each other. Then, without a word, he turned and disappeared into the night. She didn't know his name. Didn't know why he was there. But that night, for the first time in years, something inside her flickered. A tiny, fragile thing. Hope.
The fasting continued. The forced prayers. The hollow hunger in her stomach. Grace had learned to pretend—kneeling when told, bowing her head, murmuring the words they wanted to hear. But she knew no one was listening. No one up there cared. Her faith was gone. Days blurred into weeks, and the whispers about her never stopped. Cursed girl. Demon child. The one who screams at night. When she walked through the halls, children would inch away as if she carried some kind of plague. Then, one night, something changed. She was curled up on the cold wooden floor of her dormitory, too hungry to sleep, when she heard a faint shuffling sound near the door. A small piece of bread, slightly squished, slid through a gap at the bottom. She stared at it. Then, a tiny folded note followed. With wary fingers, she picked it up and opened it. The writing was barely legible, scrawled in messy ink. "Eat before the rats do. Or don't. More for them. Your choice. Also, you look like a starving cat. Try not to die. - A friend (not a rat, I promise)" Grace blinked. Her stomach twisted painfully at the sight of food, but she hesitated. Could it be a trick? Was someone messing with her? Her stomach made the decision for her. She grabbed the bread and ate in small bites, savoring the taste. The next night, another piece of bread. Another note. "You must be really bad at making friends. Even the ghosts don't talk to you. Anyway, here's bread. Don't worship me, though I understand if you want to." She rolled her eyes but couldn't stop the small twitch of her lips. For a week, it continued. A piece of bread. A note. Some were ridiculous. "I almost got caught sneaking this. If I die, name a cat after me." "Do you ever laugh? I think your face would crack." "If you're actually a demon, please don't possess me. I'm too pretty for that." Each night, she waited for it. Not just for the bread, but for the ridiculous messages. They were the only warmth she had in this place. But curiosity burned. She needed to know who was behind it. So one night, instead of taking the bread immediately, she waited by the door. When the note slid through, she moved fast, shoving it open. A boy yelped. He was crouched outside, eyes wide like a caught thief. Tousled dark hair, mismatched shoes, a loose orphanage uniform. "You—!" she started. He scrambled up, but she grabbed his sleeve. "Who are you?" "Would you believe me if I said an angel?" he grinned. She narrowed her eyes. "Fine, fine," he sighed. "Name's Elias. But since you've been calling me Bread Boy in your head, I'll allow it." Her lips parted slightly. She had been calling him that. "How did you—?" "You look at the bread like it's a miracle from heaven. Which, in a way, it is." He winked. She released his sleeve, eyeing him suspiciously. "Why are you doing this?" His smirk faded slightly. "Because you looked like you needed someone to." For a moment, she didn't know what to say. No one had ever tried to be on her side before.Elias became the one bright thing in her world. He shielded her from bullies. One afternoon, when a group of older girls had cornered her, calling her names, he had walked in, thrown an arm around her, and announced loudly, "Did you know she's actually a secret princess? If you bully her, you'll be cursed. Or worse—you'll have to listen to me talk for hours." They had scattered instantly. He teased her mercilessly, but it was never cruel. "Do you ever smile?" he asked one day. "Do you ever shut up?" she shot back. Elias grinned. "Nope. It's part of my charm."
A hesitant friendship formed between them, blossoming in the shadows of the orphanage's oppressive atmosphere. Elias had an uncanny ability to appear when Grace needed him most, deflecting the harsh words of bullies with his sharp wit and shielding her from their cruelty. One afternoon, as the sun cast long shadows across the courtyard, a group of children circled Grace, their taunts like venomous darts. Before she could retreat, Elias stepped in, his stance protective. "Didn't anyone tell you?" he said loudly, drawing everyone's attention. "Messing with her means you're messing with me. And trust me, you don't want that." The children hesitated, uncertainty flickering in their eyes. Grace looked at Elias, her heart swelling with an emotion she couldn't quite name. For the first time in a long while, she felt seen. Despite his lighthearted demeanor, Elias possessed a depth that intrigued Grace. He noticed things others overlooked, like her reluctance during prayer sessions. One evening, as they sat beneath the dim glow of the chapel's candles, he turned to her, his expression unusually serious. "You know," he began softly, "prayer isn't just about faith. Sometimes, it's about hope. About finding a sliver of light in the darkest places." Memories of her father surfaced, his gentle voice echoing similar sentiments. The parallel was uncanny, and it both comforted and unsettled her. "Why do you care if I pray or not?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Elias shrugged, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Because I see a spark in you, Grace. One that's been dimmed but not extinguished. And I think the world needs more light." His words wrapped around her heart, squeezing gently. The walls she had built around herself began to crack, allowing fragments of warmth and hope to seep through. Through Elias, Grace rediscovered the power of connection, the strength in vulnerability, and the enduring light of hope. Her prayers, once hollow, now carried the weight of genuine yearning. And in the quiet moments between dusk and dawn, she found herself whispering words into the darkness, believing, for the first time in years, that someone was listening.