CHAPTER 19 Yet Chosen

CHAPTER 19 Yet Chosen

Truth and miracle

A single flake of ice drifted through the still winter skies, tumbling weightlessly on a harsh cold breeze, caught by the pale light of morning winter, glimmering like a slow falling mote of white dust—without haste, without trouble.

A world of whiteness.

It floated downward—over frost-numbed branches, past a narrow metal walkway atop a building roof—and came to rest against the cold edge of a wooden window frame in one of the alleys of the 17th District.

There it clung, fragile and uninvited, just another breath of winter pressing against the pane of glass belonging to the Weaving Twig and Sculpt Store, owned by the Gustmill family.

Through the wavering glass, Leyla and Kimmi nestled on the cluttered floor, and beyond them, near the doorway, stood a figure wrapped in stillness, her shoulder gently resting against the frame.

She was Catherine.

Arms crossed beneath a thick woollen muffler, she watched without saying a word, her presence part of the rooms rhythm even in its quietness. The door was left ajar, half-open not in hesitation but in care—just wide enough to let warmth from the hallway slip in.

There was no hearth in this part of the house—only the slow, steady exhale of warmth drifting in from the hallway, where a black, bulky portable iron furnace stood at its post like an old dwarf, coughing smoke now and then with tired breath.

The smoke flowed up to the ceiling, seeping out through a small jalousie frame set high near the rafters.

Catherine gaze lingered on the girls—on her daughter, sprawled halfway beneath the bed, chin on her hands, distant and drowsy—and on Leyla, the neighbours child, wrapped in a thick blanket and brimming with cheerful energy as she read aloud from a worn storybook.

Catherine allowed herself a faint smile. Not wide. Not long. Just enough.

Then turned.

Down the hallway she walked, past the furnace with its softly crackling embers, the quiet deepening behind her as sound grew more muffled in the winters fall. Her smile faded as the firelight of the kitchen came into view.

Five shadows gathered around the square table. Three she knew. Two she did not.

On one side sat the unexpected guests—an elder, Healer Raimund, whose eyes remained closed in tranquil poise, a calm smile playing on his lips, and Cleric Ilea, soft-spoken and elegant.

Across from them sat Emeline and her husband Leighton—ever calm and poised, with the bearing of a nobleman.

The fifth seat belonged to Hartmann, Catherine house healer, who looked as though he had swallowed a stone.

Catherine had sent word for Hartmann to visit them—not out of trouble, but a caution.

She simply wanted him to check on her daughter. But when he arrived at her door, he had not come alone. With him stood a man she recognized at once—Healer Raimund, the very one from the Royal Infirmary who had saved her daughters life.

Thought still, Hartmann was not supposed to bring anyone.

But earlier, before they arrived, another guest had come to visits them—Cleric Ilea of the Cheeriest Order. Her visits were a monthly occurrence for the family, routine by now. Usually brief, as she only came to deliver the allowance. Yet today, something about her presence felt different.

Today was meant to be a celebration for their child—a fete of hope, an answered prayer. That morning, they had prepared a feast for their family, only for it to be nearly ruined when an esteemed guest arrived unannounced.

Fortunately, what was meant to celebration their child wellness became, instead, a fitting welcome for their guest.

“Do forgive the chill—this old house holds warmth where it pleases,” Catherine said quietly, folding her hands in her lap.

Raimund Warmheart gave a faint shrug, his expression unreadable. “Not really. The stove still warms the kitchen well enough.”

Catherine nodded, saying nothing more as she took her seat. Her eyes scanned the table, one guest at a time, measuring each of them with a quiet scrutiny born of caution—and experience.

Her gaze settled on Cleric Ilea of the Cheeriest Order.

Catherine knew the Order well enough to fear it. The Simix Cheeriest Curator Order had once helped her family—more than once, in fact—enough times that she felt the pull of reluctant gratitude. But gratitude did not erase suspicion. And it certainly did not erase fear.

She had first met a Cheeriest cleric years ago.

Back then, they had still been searching for answers to Kimmi strange oddliness—her peculiar little ways that no one could explain. The Cheeriest Order had arrived unbidden at that time, offering what seemed like a solution—an answer to their daughters strangeness. Their response had been swift—and simple.

They had asked to take their daughter away into their care—and even offered to buy her.

It was the greatest insult Catherine had ever received. And it would have been unforgivable, if not for what came next.

She refused, of course. Any mother would.

But the Order had not stopped there. Behind their cruelty of words, they extended something far more insidious—a monthly allowance. Generous, quiet, unwavering. Payment not to give her daughter away, but to keep her.

A mother being paid to raise her own child.

An insult that turned into fear—for their intent was clear, and their interest in her child was troubling and chilling.

Her late husband, Edward Gustmill, had seen it as an opportunity for their daughters future—believing she would be well taken care of, even if the worst were to happen to them. Now that she was alone with her daughter, the weight of that choice felt all the more real.

Her eyes shifted to Raimund next. The man from the Royal Infirmary in the White District—the healer who had performed what could only be described as a miracle. Her daughter had been wounded, dying, and this man had pulled her back from the edge. For that, Catherine would forever be grateful.

But that gratitude was not blind.

If a prestigious man like The Healer Raimund Warmheart came all the way here, it meant he wanted something from them.

He had not come alone. Outside the building, a few more healers in white robes waited for him. Though they were healers by trade, they carried weapons—an unusual sight that drew curious and uneasy glances from passersby.

Beside of the table, sat in front of her was Herman Hartmann.

For years, he had been the one tending to Kimmi when no one else could, the one who diagnosed her child condition Mania symptom. His treatments, the medicine he prescribed, had softened Kimmi strange behaviour, made her calmer, easier to manage—if only on the surface.

And for a time, it helped.

Only now, after so many years, Catherine had begun to see a different kind of change—something more lasting, more real. It was still early, only a few months, but Kimmi had changed.

Herman, gave her a sheepish glance, a silent apology written in his eyes. Clearly, he felt wrong to bring a stranger to her home.

Catherine exhaled, slow and controlled. Then finally set on a chair.

A gentle hand reached across the table and clasped hers. “Catherine… it’s going to be alright,” came the soft voice of her dearest friend, Emeline.

Catherine turned toward her, offering a thin smile.

Emeline had suggested inviting her husband as a mediator, in case the conversation turned sour. And his presence alone said enough. If Leighton had made time to be here, he must have known who these people were. He knew what they were capable of—and he understood the stakes.

Catherine gave a quiet nod to Leighton.

“Since everyone is seated,” Leighton said with his usual calm, “we may proceed.”

Raimund Warmheart laced his fingers together, his expression unreadable. “As you’ve likely noticed, the child—Kimberly—has changed.”

He paused, then added, “It’s true that Mr. Hartmann may have played a role in that change…”

Herman offered a modest smile, pride flickering in his eyes.

“…But I doubt it,” Raimund finished coolly.

The smile vanished. Herman jaw clenched.

“With all due respect, Lord Raimund, that’s an insult to my work,” Herman said sharply. “My Lord… You may be a revered cleric, but medicine isn’t whispered from the heavens. It takes years of trial, failure, and research—”

“Oh, I meant no offense,” Raimund interrupted, his tone too smooth to be sincere. “Your words may be bold—perhaps even heretical—but I do admire ancient medicine. I myself use such knowledge in my medical practice at the clinic. And your contributions, Mr. Hartmann, are not without merit. Even within our clinic, your methods have been noted.”

Hartmann blinked, caught between irritation and surprise. It was praise—but barbed.

Raimund turned to Catherine, his voice softening. “What I’m saying, Mrs. Gustmill, is that something miraculous has happened to your daughter. Kimberly didn’t just survive a mortal wound—she healed herself. Entirely.”

Catherine brow furrowed. “What are you saying?”

Raimund exhaled, folding his hands atop the table. “When Kimberly was first brought to us, her condition was critical. I did everything I could to stabilize her—to keep her alive. But I never healed her. Not fully. Her body remained broken… and I feared she might a long times to healed or worst never recover.”

He let the weight of that confession settle.

“But yesterday,” he continued, “during a routine check, my clerics… your child caretaker at that’s time, discovered something astonishing—every wound on your child’s body miraculously vanished. The burns, the scars… all of it, gone.”

Leighton leaned forward. “Then how—?”

“I believe,” Raimund said slowly, “that Kimberly may have drawn upon mystical power… on her own. A spontaneous healing—akin to divine magic.”

He looked directly at Catherine. “That’s why I’m here. Because if that’s true… then your daughter may be something far beyond what any of you imagined.”

“Is there any proof of that account?” Leighton asked, his tone sharp with played scepticism.

“Do not be so alarmed,” Raimund replied, glancing briefly at Catherine before continuing. “For a child to bear divine blessing is a grace bestowed upon the family by the gods themselves. There are reports—two guards at the Royal Infirmary were healed by divine healing magic. And they say... the healer was but a child.”

Raimund opened his eyes slowly, revealing pupils tinged with crimson.

“Most healers are clerics—this is true even within our clinic. And as clerics, some of us are able to perceive divine magic when it is used by others.” He took a measured sip of tea. “That is what caused such stirs at the infirmary. The moment was fraught with confusion. They believed a gods-chosen had arrived—one blessed with the grace to perform divine healing at our clinic. And we have no such luxury visit, except from the Cheeriest Order at that’s times.” He glanced at Cleric Ilea.

Leighton’s gaze narrowed. “And if that’s true... what exactly do you intend for the child?”

At this, Raimund eyes stills drifted toward Cleric Ilea, who remained serenely poised, her fingers curled around her teacup. She sensed the weight of his gaze and answered with a gentle smile.

Raimund suspected she had her own designs. The Simix Cheeriest Curator Order, known for their neutral but firm influence, likely sought to bring Kimberly into their fold. But Kimberly was still a citizen of the Lands of Curse, Lands of Sheen—under the divine domain of Lioris, the goddess of the moon. And if the child had truly become another god chosen... she might yet choose Lioris as her patron. Or perhaps the goddess had already sway her into her divine fold.

“I came only to offer the Gustmill family a parting gift,” Cleric Ilea said at last, setting down her cup with graceful finality. “A farewell—and congratulations on Kimberly’s swift recovery.”

She glanced toward Raimund. “Beyond that, we hold no further interest in the child. Our task has always been to care for the feebleminded, and Kimberly has awakened from her… fogs… and therefore she no longer needs our care. Thus, the Cheeriest Order shall withdraw from the Gustmill household.”

A quiet fell over the table, broken only by the soft crackle of the kitchen stove.

Elsewhere, beyond the kitchen.

Kimmi waited, listening for her mothers footsteps to fade down the hallway. The moment Catherine was far enough away, Kimmi blurry eyes sharpened. She had only been pretending to be dozy.

Leyla sat beside her, diligently reading a storybook aloud—unaware of Kimmi plotting.

“Hey, Leyla…” Kimmi muttered mischievously, her voice low and dramatic. “I’m going on a grant mission, to gather information... So, I’ll head out first.”

Still half-buried under the bed, she began crawling toward the doorway like an especially sneaky cat.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Hmm?” Leyla blinked, her blanket slipping off one shoulder. “Wait—where are you going? We’re not supposed to go anywhere…” She squinted, as if trying to remember something important.

“I’m going out…” Kimmi whispered like it was a state secret, crawling inch by inch across the wooden floor toward the door frame.

Leyla stared, utterly baffled. “But I haven’t even read the best part yet!”

“And—AND! There are guests in the kitchen! Important guests!” Leyla said dramatically, pointing as if that would stop the mischievous act.

“I’m stalking them from a distance. I won’t be caught,” Kimmi said with theatrical flair, dragging herself past the doorway.

“Nooo, you can’t go to the kitchen! Mother said so!” Leyla whisper-yelled, now in pursuit.

“Psssssst! Keep it down, Leylaaa…” Kimmi hissed, motioning for silence as she slipped into the hallway like a suspicious snake. “We can finish the book later. It’s going to be a long day today. Especially in winter…”

Leyla followed, walking upright—like a normal person. “Fine! But Kimmi… you do know you have leg, right? And the floor—aren’t your knees cold?”

Kimmi froze mid-crawl, squinting back at her. “You’re right…”

She could feel the cold of the wooden floor. Oddly enough, it did not bother her.

Leyla gasped. “Aha! You are still hurt, aren’t you?!”

She immediately assumed Kimmi could not walk properly yet.

“Well… it’s a weird crampy feeling,” Kimmi admitted, sitting up with a wobble. “But I can feel my legs, and there’s no pain. So logically, I’m not hurt. That makes sense, right?”

Leyla groaned. “I don’t know, but my mom always says, if you’re hurt, you rest. Also… I’m supposed to tell them if you’re hurt…” She pointed sternly. “That means… I’m reporting you to Aunty Cane.”

“Ugh, fine!” Kimmi huffed, springing to her feet with unnecessary drama. “See? I’m totally fine.”

And yet, instead of walking like a normal person, she leaned dramatically against the wall and started side-stepping like an awkward crab.

Leyla raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to eavesdrop on the grown-ups,” Kimmi whispered. “And could you please take cover? You're standing in the open.”

“I’ve never done this before! And eavesdropping is wrong!” Leyla clutched her book like a tightly.

Kimmi squinted at her, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Oh, I highly doubt that. You’ve been sneaking me into your house all the time—and I bet you’ve been eavesdropping on your mother just to make sure you can secretly dragging me through your house!”

“What?! I did not!” Leyla spluttered. “You came in on your own!”

“You tried hiding me under the table, Aunt Emily said soo…” Kimmi lied, clearly enjoying herself.

“Never ever! You crawled there yourself!”

“So it’s true!” Kimmi pretends to be in shocked.

“No! I just… unlocked the door! I didn’t invite you in!”

“Ohhh, I see,” Kimmi chuckled. “You didn’t know the door was locked to keep me out, huh?”

“But your mother and mine are friend! That’s fine” Leyla argue.

“Might be true… but to the mischievous me…” Kimmi smiled.

“I—You… never—!” Leyla sputtered, her face flushing. “That’s not—!”

“Okay, fine…” Kimmi raised her hands in surrender. “I’ll take the faults.”

Leyla crossed her arms, somewhat satisfied.

Kimmi leaned in with a grin. “Still… Wanna hear what they’re saying?”

“No!” Leyla huffed. “I’m here to make sure you don’t do anything reckless—not to join you!”

“Huuurrrrmph. Sure you are… and you are doing an excellent job at that.” Kimmi muttered, clearly unconvinced.

“Sometimes I missed a quieter… you” Leyla squint her eyes at Kimmi.

Kimmi continued her strange sideways walk, inching along the hallway wall—until she halted before a larger and dangerous obstacle.

The portable furnace.

A bulky black iron furnace humming with warmth, its soft orange glow flickering behind the grate. It sat squarely in her path, radiating heat that pulsed against the chilled winter air.

Kimmi tilted her head toward Leyla, then slowly turned back to the furnace, considering it like a puzzle piece that did not quite fit or perhaps a misunderstood friend. She pressed a hand to her chest and lifted the other with dramatic reverence.

“Oh great Flame Keeper of the household,” Kimmi whispered solemnly, “forgive me my past wrongs. May your embers glow ever warm, unhurt, and may your ashes never tarnish the purity of our home. Stand aside, noble guardian, and grant me safe passage.”

The furnace did not respond.

Then Kimmi slowly raised one finger and moved to poke the metal frame.

“Kimmi!” Leyla yelped, rushing forward. “That’s scorching hot iron! Don’t touch that!”

Kimmi blinked, eyes wide with fake innocence. She lowered her hand slowly, gaze never leaving the furnace. Leyla narrowed her eyes—she knew that look.

Kimmi inhaled deeply, then—as if the idea of danger made her feel very responsible all of a sudden—stood upright and walked past the furnace like a normal person. For about two seconds.

As soon as she passed it, she casually leaned her shoulder against the wall again, sliding along as if nothing had changed.

Leyla just shook her head in disbelief. “You’re weird…,” she muttered under her breath.

Kimmi sideways crawl resumed until she reached near end of the hallway—where an wooden doorframe led into the food storage room. She twisted the knob.

Click.

Locked.

Kimmi squinted.

With a smirk, she ran her fingers along the edge of the frame, searching with familiarity. Then, from under her shirt, she pulled out a thin, flexible strip of wood—worn smooth from frequent use.

“Kimmi… what are you doing?” Leyla whispered, but her voice was already laced with curiosity.

Kimmi did not answer. She slipped the strip into the space between the door and the frame, wiggled it once, twice—

Clack.

The latch gave way.

Kimmi glanced back at Leyla and pushed the door open with a flourish. Grinning like a cat who would just cause trouble on purpose proudfully.

Inside was a storeroom filled with food.

Shelves of ceramic pots labelled with pickles, berries, honey, and butter. Below them, stacks of vegetables, cheese wheels, and mountains of potatoes. Barrels both small and large lined the corners.

The air was cold and earthy, thick with burlap, garlic, and spice. High above hung bundles of garlic and screwpine leaves, woven into loops.

“Eww… it’s smelly!” Leyla covered her nose.

“Such disrespect! It’s food storage. What did you expect?” Kimmi huffed.

She grabbed a bundle of screwpine, folded and twisted, then handed it to Leyla.

Leyla sniffed it. “Smells nice… but it’s just leaf… I don’t want to eat these.”

“Not for eating. Just cover your nose,” Kimmi said as she moved deeper into the storeroom, she pick a single screwpine and put it to her lips and biting its like an hamster.

Finally, upon reaching the end of the storage wall, she presses her ear against the far wall.

Leyla who’s still outside of the food storage door, glanced toward the flickering light at the corner that led to the kitchen, then sighed deeply before stepped into the storage room, covering her nose with the screw pine bundle. She joined Kimmi at the far end of the wall.

Both girls leaned in, ears pressed against the boards.

Back in the kitchen.

Cleric Ilea words left the room in stunned silence. Faces around the table were frozen in disbelief. Seeing their expressions, she drew a slow, measured breath.

“I suppose I owe you all an explanation,” she said gently, breaking the silence.

She looked to Catherine.

“Kimberly—your daughter, Mrs. Gustmill—shows fewer signs of her former condition,” Ilea continued with careful calm. “The feebleminded do not often awaken.”

Her eyes lingered on Catherine.

“She no longer needs us. Kimberly has emerged from the fog of her mind—freed from her divine gift. It saddens us, of course… but this awakening is, in itself, extraordinary.”

Catherine gaze sharpened. Her voice, quiet but steely, cut through the calm.

“What do you mean? Your order claims to help children like my daughter… but you speak as if she’s already been cast aside.”

Ilea eyes softened, her tone still mild—perhaps too mild.

“Ah. The awakening of a feebleminded child has only been recorded a handful of times in the last century. And Kimberly… was never officially under our care. Which is what makes this all the more remarkable. I credit your unwavering devotion, Lady Gustmill. Few mothers would endure what you have.”

She closed her eyes in a moment of prayer. “May the gods continue to bless your household.”

The room held its breath—until Leighton, finally spoke. “Then I take it you do not intend to answer the question?” His voice was calm, but edged with quiet reproach.

But Catherine voice came again, colder than before. “You never intended to help her at all.”

“For us in the Cheeriest Order…” Ilea hesitated, a flicker of sorrow in her voice, “to lose such a gift is… akin to being abandoned by the gods.”

Raimund brow furrowed. “You’re saying you’ll simply abandon a child who might be a god’s chosen?”

A quiet murmur passed through the room.

“God’s chosen?” Ilea repeated, letting out a faint, amused breath. “Grand Elder Raimund… Kimberly may be beloved, yes—like all the feebleminded in our care, she is touched by divine. But to declare her a chosen? That is quite the leap. A god’s chosen is blessed and born, never the same…”

She lifted one finger in mild emphasis as she finished her tea. “I believe Kimberly is protected, perhaps even blessed. But to wield divinity? That is something else entirely. It’s not uncommon for a Soulless to be spared by miracles. Our entire order is built on understanding such occurrences.”

Silence returned. The fire crackled quietly in the hearth.

“We do not believe in medicine for divine gifts,” Ilea continued, her tone steady. “Only time, patience, and reverence. As I’ve said before, those who awaken do so not by our hand, but by the will of the heavens. This… is the first time I have seen such change with my own eyes.”

Her voice trembled faintly—not with doubt, but a kind of reverent awe. “It warms the heart to witness it… but it is also deeply sorrowful.”

Then her tone shifted—polished and gentle, but edged.

“That said… Mr. Hartmann, your approach to treatment does raise questions. I trust your methods have caused the girl no harm?”

Hartmann, sitting near the stove, flinched. Her voice, though velvet-soft, had stung. His grip tightened around his teacup.

But before he could speak, Catherine rose. Her back was straight, her voice firm.

“Mr. Hartmann’s efforts have been nothing but kind. He treated my daughter with care and respect—when others dismissed her as hopeless. Whatever doubts you carry, know this—his hands helped her more than all your order’s silence ever did.”

Cleric Ilea inclined her head, her expression unreadable.

“My apologies if I’ve caused offense, Mrs. Gustmill. Our order tends only to the feebleminded, yes—but those who awaken are no longer within our care,” she repeated, echoing the same phrase once more.

She smoothed the folds of her robe and took a step back from the table.

“I have said all I came to say. Farewell—and thank you for the tea. It was delightful.”

Then, glancing toward Raimund, she added with a trace of warmth, “Grand Elder Raimund, if ever you wish to learn more of our work, do visit our haven in the Imperial Capital. It would be an honour to receive someone of your calibre.”

Scrrrrch

Cleric Ilea rose to her feet, dragging the chair back with a soft scrape. She bowed with the grace of a seasoned cleric, her robes whispering across the floor. Then she turned and walked the short distance toward the corner where the stairs waited, her steps unhurried.

Just before turning down the stairwell, she paused. Her eyes drifted toward the dim hallway behind her—past the kitchen. Two small figures peeked at her from the edge of the door frame, watching in silence.

They’re Kimmi and Leyla.

Ilea met their curious stares with a gentle, knowing smile—one that held no judgment, only warmth. Then, without a word, she flicked her finger in the air before turning back to the stairs and descending, vanishing through the doorway into the cold beyond.

In the kitchen, the room fell silent once more.

Raimund gave a deep sigh and broke the silence.

“There is no mistaking the will of the divine,” he said. “Not all gifts come wrapped in light. Sometimes… they are shrouded in shadow. And even then, the gods do not make mistakes.”

Catherine said nothing. Her gaze lingered on the empty chair, then dropped to her teacup, now gone cold.

Unanswered prayers may bloom with care—The divine moves quiet, strange, and fair.

In the quiet gloom of the storage, Kimmi and Leyla crouched behind the door.

“Leyla…” Kimmi whispered. “Did you hear any of that?”

Leyla clutched her bundle of screwpine tighter, shaking her head. “I heard nothing. Just echoes… muffled voices. But I think… I heard they mention your name a few times, I think.”

Kimmi nodded slowly, tapping her forehead. “Yessss... That healer woman… I’ve seen her before. Somewhere…”

“She seemed to know you,” Leyla murmured. “Is she our aunt or something?”

Kimmi frowned. “No… or maybe? I don’t know. I don’t care. I call every adult 'Aunt' anyway—it’s efficient.”

She shrugged like it was obvious, then leaned in dramatically. “Anyway, Leyla, it’s time to bail. This place is super forbidden. Only my mother is allowed to be here.”

She nodded solemnly, as if this were a perfectly reasonable plan.

Leyla blinked. “What?!”

“Sometimes you gotta learn, Leyla… a locked door means a big ol’ nope nope nope.” Kimmi grinned and let out a mischievous giggle.

Without hesitation, Leyla grabbed Kimmi hand and storm away. “Come on! We have to go—now!”

The two of them slipped out, Kimmi softly closing the door behind them with a quiet click. But just as they passed the old furnace—

Clunk Tsssss.

A sudden clatter made them freeze.

From the glowing belly of the furnace, a single chunk of blackened wood tumbled out and rolled beneath one of its heavy iron legs. It hissed faintly as embers clung to it—dim, pulsing like a fading heartbeat.

Leyla did not flinch. She tilted her head, unconcerned. “Oh… it’s just the furnace spitting coals again. Happens sometimes.”

But then her eyes narrowed.

The lump of wood was not just coal. Burned and cracked though it was, the shape was familiar. A curved beak. Feathered lines. The faint silhouette of a birds head, scorched black.

Leyla instinctively turned to Kimmi.

Kimmi lips parted. Her body trembled. A tear slid down her cheek—silent and slow. She noticed the way Leyla was looking at her—eyes wide, somewhere between worried and weirded out.

“Oh, nothing to be worried about…” Kimmi waved her hand vaguely, trying to brush it all off. “I just feel… very saddd…”

The word dragged from her lips like molasses, her eyes now watery faucets. Her face flushed red, betraying her crumbling composure.

“And… tiny bits of anger? You know. The usual stuff… right?” Her voice cracked like brittle glass.

Then—without another word—Kimmi turned and bolted.

“Kimmi?!” Leyla shouted, already chasing after her. “What’s wrong?!”

But Kimmi did not stop.

She charged down the hallway, slammed into her bedroom door, and flung it wide. What followed was pure chaos.

Drawers were yanked out and emptied. Blankets stripped from the bed. Boxes toppled, spilling their contents across the floor. She dove to the ground, rummaging under the bed, behind shelves, beneath trunks. She even shoved over a heavy carved statue with a crash, just to get behind it.

Nothing.

She found nothing she was looking for—though, truthfully, she didn’t even know what she was looking for.

Each empty drawer, each cleared hollowed corner within the drawer, only made the pressure in her chest grow heavier. Her breathing came in shallow, ragged gasps. Her arms trembled. Her heart pounded like it was trying to crack through her ribs.

And then—something broke.

Kimmi dropped to her knees, clawing at the floorboards as if she could tear them open with her bare hands. Her shoulders shook violently. Her mouth twisted in silence. The rage had gone beyond shouting—beyond crying.

It had curdled into something heavier.

Madness.

She gritted her teeth. Her fingers tangled in her hair. Her head throbbed. Her vision swam.

Then, suddenly, she froze—one of the floorboards she had been clawing at had shifted.

It was not a hidden compartment—not really. Just a loose plank, broken or swollen from age. But beneath it was a shallow space packed with dust, cobwebs, dried leaves, lost buttons, and the forgotten piece of her passed.

And there, sitting quietly in the mess, was a small carved statue of a bird.

Kimmi stared.

Relief hit her like a warm wave. Her fury, her panic, her sadness—they did not vanish, but they quieted. She reached out with trembling hands and cradled the little bird to her chest. Her arms wrapped around herself. She began to rock slowly, back and forth.

Something inside her was still yelling, still arguing, still demanding, still searching, still grasping for control—but another part whispered over it, trying to soothe the madness.

“Calm… Kimmi… calm…” she muttered, barely audible. “We can always ask for new birds… many more birds… just have to ask Mother… it’s easy… very easy…”

She did not fully understand what had just happened. All she knew was that something had been taken from her, and that burning charcoal had lit a fuse she did not even know existed. There was no warning, no time to prepare—just sudden, overwhelming emotion.

Her breath slowed.

Kimmi stared at the hidden compartment.

It was just an old, loose floorboard—nothing secret, nothing mysterious. Just a hollow space where a child had once tucked away bits of nonsense and stray thoughts. But somehow, it still told a story—one about who she used to be.

She closed the plank gently and lay back on the floor, arms spread out, the tiny bird clutched against her chest. Her eyes, red and glassy, stared at the ceiling as she waited for her heart be calmer.

Then, slowly, she turned her head.

Leyla stood frozen in the doorway, wide-eyed, barely breathing.

Kimmi gave her a tired, tear-streaked smile.

“Oh… hey, Leyla. Sorry you had to see that…” she said weakly. “I guess I was just… very angry and sad at the same time. You probably see that kind of thing often. But, uh, it’s news to me.”

She let out a small, exhausted chuckle.

Leyla took a step back, eyes still locked on Kimmi.

And then—

“AUNT CANEEE!!” Leyla screamed down the hallway.

Leyla voice, reverberated across the hallways alerting everyone at the house.

Kimmi groaned, flopping her arm over her face.

“Great…”

What feels like loss may mask the thread, of wonders meant for what once had.