As the sound of metal clashing and turning within the lock grew louder, Eamon's heart beat with a strength that threatened to shatter the silent darkness that enveloped him. The lock emitted a prolonged creak, like a hissing serpent, causing every air molecule in the room to be filled with tension. Hidden behind the shelves, Eamon barely dared to breathe, fearing that even the slightest noise would give away his position.

'What is she doing here? So late?' The questions flooded his mind but were quickly silenced by the panic gripping his chest. His hands trembled and sweat, as he clung to the corner of the shelf. 'You have to calm down. You have to be invisible.'

The door began to open, and a sliver of dim light entered the office, casting shifting patterns on the floor as shadows played hide-and-seek. In the threshold, a figure stood out clearly: Director Collins.

Dressed in a dark blue pajama, in which small moons and stars seemed to come alive with each movement, she presented a very different image from the formal woman the orphanage children were accustomed to seeing. Her hair, usually restrained by a tight bun, now fell freely, a silver cascade framing a face that, despite the wrinkles of time, still exuded an ethereal beauty.

The atmosphere in the room felt charged as if even the shadows were aware of the importance of the moment. Eamon's internal whispers were almost palpable. 'She can't find me. Not here. Not now.'

Every step the director took, every sway of the candle, emphasized Eamon's urgent need to remain hidden, to be just another shadow in that room.

The silence in the room was overwhelming, interrupted only by the soft crackling of the candle that Director Collins held firmly. The light of the flame, though small, seemed to have the ability to illuminate every dark corner, making Eamon feel more and more vulnerable in his hiding spot.

Eamon could feel his heart pounding in his chest, each beat resonating in his ears. He tried to control his breathing, ensuring each breath was silent and measured. 'Stay calm,' he repeated to himself, trying to steady his nerves. But the whisper of doubt crept in, 'What if she finds me?'

The maternal figure of the director leaned forward, bringing the candle closer to the ground. The yellow light illuminated the darkest corners of the room, causing Eamon to retreat even further behind the shelf. Every step she took, every movement she made, seemed charged with a desperation that Eamon had never perceived in her.

Although he was hidden, the young man could imagine the furrows on Director Collins' forehead deepening with concern. He visualized the loose strands of her silver-gray hair falling around her face as she leaned in further, searching in the dark corners.

'Please, don't discover me. Please, don't look here,' his thoughts whispered, as fear wrapped around him like a constricting serpent. He could feel his heart beating uncontrollably, each beat echoing in his ears like a desperate scream of alarm.

Just as Director Collins' shadow began to invade the small corner where Eamon was hiding, the world seemed to come to a halt. A vibration began to emerge from the depths of his being, pulsing through his veins like an ancient melody. It was a sensation that felt familiar yet foreign: the whisper of something primal, an ancestral energy. Like the unsettling buzz that precedes a storm, or more precisely, the muffled hum of a swarm of bees preparing to attack.

As the tension in the air felt almost tangible, a subtle yet powerful gust disrupted the office. The papers resting on Director Collins' desk were lifted by the air, creating a fleeting whirlwind that filled the room. It was as if an invisible breath of wind had suddenly entered, stirring everything in its path. The sheets danced erratically, becoming the protagonists of an unexpected show.

The candle that Director Collins held flickered unsteadily, casting fleeting shadows on the walls, creating a momentary visual distraction that gave Eamon the time he needed to compose himself and prepare for the director's next move. Every second was crucial, and every detail of that scene could make the difference between discovery and concealment.

Confusion appeared on Director Collins' face. The elderly woman, whose wrinkles always seemed to tell stories of understanding and affection, now wore an expression of genuine surprise. She rose slowly, her upright figure seeming to dominate the entire room, while her deep blue eyes tried to find an explanation for the phenomenon. However, she soon focused her attention on the scattered papers, momentarily forgetting her initial search.

After moments that felt eternal, amidst the chaos of fluttering papers, Director Collins finally stopped at a specific point on the floor. Eamon, peeking cautiously from behind the shelves, observed as the director's expression shifted from confusion and concern to a deep and palpable relief. Her fingers, wrinkled by the passage of time but still agile, gently closed around a small object. It was her pendant, the one she always wore around her neck, which everyone in the orphanage had learned to associate with her. The candlelight reflected the pendant's shiny silver metal, and the detail of the heart was clearly visible, even in the dim lighting.

The room was enveloped in a silence so deep that Eamon would swear he heard the director's heartbeat. With the pendant securely held in her hand, Director Collins whispered, her voice broken by emotion: "I thought I had lost you." The words, spoken with such tenderness and sincerity, made Eamon feel a lump in his throat. It was evident that this pendant meant much more to the director than any child in the orphanage could have imagined.

With trembling hands, the director proceeded to place the pendant around her neck, securing it with the care and reverence one would treat an invaluable treasure. Once it was in place, she seemed to regain her composure. She took a deep breath as if with that act, she could leave behind the whirlwind of emotions she had experienced in those brief moments.

After one last glance around the office, making sure everything was in order, she headed towards the door. The candlelight moved with her, creating a dance of shadows on the wall that gradually faded as she walked away. Without looking back, Director Collins left the office, closing the door with a soft click.

The air in the office seemed thicker after the director's departure. Eamon felt trapped in a limbo between relief and uncertainty. Every little sound, from the faint crackling of the candles to the distant echo of the director's footsteps, was magnified in his hyper-alert state.

Despite hearing the director lock the door, he remained motionless in his hiding spot, fearful that any hasty movement would give away his presence. Several minutes passed, though each second felt like an hour to him.

Finally, encouraged by the silence that now dominated the room, Eamon slowly stood up, dusting off his clothes. He blinked a couple of times as he let his eyes readjust to the darkness of the office, now illuminated only by the moonlight filtering through the partially closed curtains.

The thought of how close he had come to being discovered haunted him. It would have been the end of his mission, the end of everything he had planned. But it was his magic, that mysterious gift that had always been a constant in his life, that had intervened at the right moment. He recalled the peculiar sensation, that buzzing he felt deep in his mind just before the papers flew around the room. It was as if an electric current, chaotic yet purposeful, sought a way to act.

With his gaze fixed on the closed door, a flood of emotions overwhelmed him. The vulnerability of Director Collins, the loss of a precious object, all of it resonated within him. He himself had had a special object in his past, a tangible reminder of someone he loved deeply. But he had made the difficult decision to leave it behind, to not be dragged down by the pain it carried.

As he struggled against the lump in his throat and the threatening tears, Eamon remembered the reason for his presence there. He forced himself to focus, to set aside his emotions, and to concentrate on the task at hand.

He resumed his search, returning to the shelves. With the tips of his fingers, he traced the edge of the files, moving slowly towards where he had left off his search. He remembered having gone through the letters "S" and "R," so he knew he must be close. And then, as if it had been waiting for him all this time, a file with his name shone under the candlelight.

He took it with both hands, feeling the weight of his history in them. He sat on the floor, back against the shelf, and with trembling hands, he opened the file. The first words seemed to leap off the page, eager to reveal the secrets of his past. With a deep sigh, Eamon immersed himself in the reading, hoping to find answers.

St. Elias Orphanage File

Subject: Eamon Thornwood

Full Name: Eamon Alastair Thornwood

Date of Birth: July 13, 1979

Date of Admission: July 14, 1980

Notes on His Admission to St. Elias Orphanage:

On a cold early morning, at the boundary between darkness and the dawn of Fairbridge, I found young Eamon at the gates of our orphanage, wrapped in a blanket. Embroidered on it was his name, "Eamon Alastair Thornwood," along with the date: July 13, 1979. I presumed that was his birth date. Next to him was a woman in critical health condition; she didn't respond to any of the first aid we could provide. She was immediately taken to Fairbridge Hospital, where she has remained in a comatose state since then. Authorities' investigations couldn't ascertain anything about her origin or background. Despite all efforts, no relative or acquaintance has come forward.

Behavior and Observations:

Since his arrival, Eamon has been an introspective child, yet remarkably observant. In his early years, he rarely displayed strong emotions, always seeming to be processing the world around him with an uncommon depth for his age. As he grew, he showed insatiable curiosity and outstanding intelligence, even standing out among older children.

While he's a child of reserved nature, he has managed to form affectionate bonds with several children in the orphanage. However, in recent times, I've noticed an increase in his episodes of introspection, which are now more frequent and prolonged. His way of expressing himself has also changed; at times, when I converse with him, I feel like I'm talking to an adult trapped in a child's body. These changes, though puzzling, have led me to reflect even more on the mystery surrounding his past and the circumstances that brought him to us.

Signature:

Director Grace Lillian Collins

St. Elias Orphanage

As Eamon went to put the file back in its place, his mind was racing, trying to process the information. The contrast between the cold paper and the fiery words written on it overwhelmed him. The date of his admission, a day after his first birthday, made him wonder what kind of circumstances had brought him there. And, more than anything, the mysterious woman. Who was she? What was her relationship to him?

Eamon whispered, as if saying it out loud might make it real, "Eamon Alastair Thornwood...". There was something about saying his full name that gave him a sense of wholeness, of belonging.

'Thornwood isn't exactly a common surname, even in the magical world. Maybe he came from a family line with some kind of distinction or importance. Or maybe, was it just a coincidence?' he thought as he pondered the new questions plaguing his mind.

He leaned deeper against the shelf, feeling its coolness. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to imagine that cold dawn in Fairbridge, him as a baby, and the woman, whose identity remained a mystery. What feelings and desperation would have led her to leave him at the orphanage? Would she have cried when leaving him? Or perhaps, in her state, she wasn't even aware of her actions.

"Are you my mother?", he whispered in a thin voice, directed at the shadow of that woman who haunted him from the pages of the file. But more than pain, he felt a deep curiosity. What had led this woman to leave him right on the doorstep of the orphanage, in such precarious conditions? Was she truly a blood tie, or just a passing caregiver? If there was truly a connection with her, he felt it was his duty to find out and make sure she was okay.

He opened his eyes again, taking a deep breath. Although he felt grateful for the puzzle pieces he had obtained, he understood that there was still much to discover about his past.

Feeling he wouldn't find more answers there, Eamon remained silent for a moment, his eyes scanning every corner of the office as if trying to imprint every detail in his memory. Every paper, every book, every small object resting on the desk or on the shelves seemed to have a story, a connection to his past or the past of another orphanage child. The air, though silent, was laden with secrets and memories.

With a sigh, he rose from his seat on the floor. His muscles, tense from the time he had spent sitting and the intensity of the reading, ached with a slight burn. He stretched briefly, trying to relieve the tension, and adjusted his clothes, preparing for the journey that awaited him outside that room. A sense of urgency began to grow in his chest; he knew that every second he spent there increased the risk of being discovered.

He looked towards the door, mentally calculating the best route to return to his room without being detected. Remembering the hallways and doors, the shadows and corners where he could hide if necessary.

The echoes of his own footsteps seemed too loud in the sepulchral silence of the night. The shadows cast by the flickering lights of the hallway lamps drew strange figures on the walls, making him jump more than once thinking they were other people. Although Eamon had walked that hallway hundreds of times, everything seemed more threatening under the dark cloak of night.

As he passed by Mr. Thompson's chair, he paused for a brief moment. The worn wood of the seat and back seemed to hold the memories of all those children who had been punished by the stern watchman. Eamon remembered the stories told in secret among the children, those that spoke of ears being pulled and lock-ups in dark rooms. Stories he didn't know if they were true or just orphanage legends, but at that moment they seemed all too real.

The cold metal of the chair's back was cold to the touch, a stark contrast to the warmth of his skin. Eamon touched it briefly as if hoping it would give him some clue about Mr. Thompson's whereabouts. The ominous emptiness of that chair screamed one thing at him: danger.

A wave of anxiety washed over him as he remembered Mr. Thompson's piercing and disapproving gaze. Although he wasn't a particularly large man, his presence commanded respect and fear among the children. Eamon knew that the man's absence from that chair meant he was somewhere in the building, patrolling with hawk eyes, always alert to any unusual noise or movement.

Quickly, he mapped out the most direct route to his room in his mind, trying to anticipate the possible places where Mr. Thompson might appear. Every shadow, every slightly open door, every creak of the old wooden floor became a potential obstacle in his mission to return safely. With his heart pounding in his chest, Eamon quickened his pace, determined not to be caught that night.

As he passed the slightly open kitchen door, the dim light of a lone candle illuminated the figure of Mrs. Jenkins, wrapped in a woolen shawl that highlighted her silvery hair. The aroma of freshly brewed tea floated in the air, mixing with the smell of old books and waxed wood. The scene in the kitchen was like a small oasis of tranquility amidst the tension Eamon felt.

Mrs. Jenkins was an older woman, with wrinkled but agile hands, and a gaze that, despite the years, retained a youthful sparkle. She had worked at the orphanage for as long as Eamon could remember and, unlike Mr. Thompson, she always showed kindness to the children. It wasn't unusual for her to offer some of her hot tea to a child having trouble sleeping or in need of some comfort on difficult nights. Eamon even remembered a time when she had covered him with a blanket and told him stories until sleep overcame him.

Watching Mrs. Jenkins, he noticed her lips moving slowly, as if she was whispering the words of the book she held. The serenity she displayed at that moment was something Eamon envied. 'What's it like to read a book without worries, without watching the time or who might catch you?', he wondered as he continued on his way.

He decided not to disturb her; after all, he didn't want to draw attention or give Mrs. Jenkins a reason to worry. Although he trusted that if she discovered him, she wouldn't betray him to Mr. Thompson, he didn't want to put her in an awkward situation.

He was about to move away from the kitchen and continue on his path when he felt pressure on his shoulder. Turning slowly, his gaze met the cold, piercing eyes of Mr. Thompson, who looked at him with a mix of disapproval and triumph.

Mr. Thompson's massive hand felt like a claw, gripping Eamon's shoulder with a force that threatened to leave a bruise. Despite the darkness of the hallway, the man's eyes gleamed with a sinister spark. Every story Eamon had heard about Mr. Thompson's punishments flooded back into his mind, making his heart pound in his chest.

The seconds felt like hours as they stared at each other. Eamon, trapped like an animal in a snare, and Mr. Thompson, savoring this moment of power. The silence was almost palpable, broken only by the faint murmur of Mrs. Jenkins reading in the kitchen, oblivious to the situation unfolding just steps away from her.

The cold air of the hallway seemed to freeze in Eamon's lungs. His thoughts raced, searching for an excuse, an explanation, anything that might save him from Mr. Thompson's wrath. But his mind was blank, paralyzed by fear and surprise.

Finally, Mr. Thompson broke the silence with his deep, hoarse voice, "What do you think you're doing, boy?". His tone was low, but laden with threat. Each word was tinged with disdain and authority.

'Damn', was the only word that crossed Eamon's mind, aware that his little nighttime adventure was not going to end on a high note.