1. IRIS HEMMINGS

"Mommy! She did that!" she screamed, her eyes expressing her utmost fear. "Don't be stupid, honey, how could she do that?" her mother asked carefully. She started sobbing silently, "But, I teased her and she became angry and attacked me!" her sobs grew louder. The mother looked at the other girl with weird suspicion. Her head was down, silent like midnight.

"Let's go, honey." She whispered, holding her child closely.

Whispers around her, all hush tones, avoiding her gaze thoroughly.

"How did she do it?"

"The table just lifted off itself"

"Was it wind?"

"Don't be stupid! She was so angry; she must have lifted it like hell!"

That was so unreal.

Even to her.

"Would you like ketchup with it?" Morgan asked, wrapping the omelette and placing it neatly onto the plate.

Iris looked up from the riddle book, "Yes please." Morgan gave a small smile and dressed the omelette with a smiley. She placed the plate on the kitchen table, "Here you go." She gave her small look, and let out the small 'thank you'. The yellow hue mingled with white and decorated with the red gave her a small happiness, reminding her of the happy vacation that would be gone within no time.

After few seconds of silence, Morgan cleared her throat, "Iris, did you move the box in the attic into your room?" Chewing her omelette, she looked up. Things happened. Again. "I didn't." she replied indifferently. Morgan gave a small sigh, "Do you know how it moved into your room?" Iris was silent, she couldn't tell her what happened. What she thought. "I don't know." She swallowed another piece.

"Please tell the truth, hon." Morgan changed her tone of pleading to strict commanding voice.

"Someone else must have moved it." She said, even if she was used enough to realize that she was somehow responsible. "There's no one except you and me." She bit her lip, her throat suffocated to give an answer.

"Iris Hemmings, I'm asking how the box moved on its own?" Morgan raised her voice, thinking it of no use. After all, she had seen like this so many times. Iris toys' dragging itself to her, then when she would turn back and find it beside her, she would gleefully screech, hold it up, and look at her mother, who would've watched the whole episode, too shocked to say anything, "Thanks mama!" She had also found her white dress transform into a beautiful, shimmering silver frock which she had wanted since the previous day, but she had always told her a 'next time'.

"I don't know! Why should I tell you?! You aren't my mother anyway! I was adopted! But even you didn't know! You also hate me because I'm a freak!" her yell filled with sobs, and hiccups. Morgan looked her eyes wide open.

"I just wanted to know when and where I was born! And I was thinking about at night, then the box was there next morning. I thought you had kept it for me! And I saw it... I was adopted, found near a meadow, your dad's farmland!" she had warm tears streaming, more threatening to come out.

"Honey..." she was speechless, unable to defend herself.

Unable to comfort her.

She stormed upstairs, leaving her omelette almost finished but some white still left. "Iris! Come back!" she followed her to her room, but stopped, unable to come up with a proper explanation. What would she say? She had her crying, with her mother dead beside her, her mother, so desperately holding onto her, even though her breath was gone. She was immediately taken to the hospital where the doctor assured the baby safe but, the mother dead, without any internal injuries, bruises, problems. Her heart had just stopped beating.

She slowly opened the door, which creaked, heard her sobbing, mumbling desperately, "I'm not weird. I didn't do anything. I didn't do anything. I just wanted to know."

All weird things happen when she's curious.

When she wants sincerely.

Morgan entered her room slowly, each step making a decision whether to face her or not. 'What should I say? The truth?' she thought, 'I don't know how her mother died, or who her father is.'

"Did my dad hate me?" she whispered, tears continuing to flow. She looked at Morgan, who was putting a great effort to hide her astonishment. "I can hear you, you don't have to speak loud. I can also hear what my classmates think of me. They think I'm a witch. An evil witch." she hiccupped. Morgan had always heard her sobbing after she came from school, but she couldn't find a proper reason to convince her. Even the teachers complained about supernatural phenomena around her. A pencil flying to her, the one she wanted, table falling, an unnatural quake in school building when she's laughed and teased by the whole class.

"I understand your concern Ms. Hemmings, but I think you should visit a psychiatrist as soon as possible, or even try hospital for the differently abled. She couldn't. She just couldn't.

She was terrified of the consequences.

These thoughts replayed in her mind, when she gazed back at those pure brown eyes.

"I don't know, Iris." Was all she could reply. She turned around, ready to leave the room. She should give a serious thought of visiting a psychiatrist.

"I'm not crazy." She heard her mumble quietly. She finally closed the door and felt the need to go out to gasp a huge amount of air.

Another day of summer had come to an end. The sun had become yellowish red, the hue Iris had on today's breakfast. She had been on her bed the whole day, after arguing with her mom, no, Morgan. She was so excited for this day, because she would know how happy Morgan would've been to see her. Or her dad, if he was ever there to see her. Her expectations had crumbled, when she found the contents of the box. Documents of adoption, papers of her mother's death and a chain with a ring which had a red feather tied to it. Even though it had been eleven years already, the feather still felt warm and soft upon touching, like it felt to have been brought few hours ago. She got up from her bed, opening the small box, holding the chain delicately. She touched the feather, which was still warm, still soft and made her calm somehow. She felt protected. She put it around her neck, hiding it underneath the hem of her shirt.

The soft knock on the window made her jump on her bed, startled. She turned around, to see a pretty silver owl, a letter clung onto its beak, her grey irises staring right at her. She was unable to comprehend the presence of an owl, in the middle of London streets. But her fear faded as she stepped towards the window, her eyes strained onto the letter which had a unique way of addressing the addressee.

LYDIA SILVER, FIRST FLOOR BEDROOM, 56, MARGARET STREET, LONDON