April 28, 1985

The cold bathroom floor seemed to be the only real point of contact Eamon had with the world at that moment. The tiles, cold and firm beneath his trembling palms, offered a sharp contrast to the whirlwind of emotions threatening to drag him into the depths of panic.

The room, poorly lit and silent, felt suffocating. His hands shook uncontrollably, and every attempt to stabilize his breathing seemed in vain. The shadows in the bathroom moved and danced, projected by the flickering light from outside. 'You're trapped,' whispered a voice in the back of his mind, cold and piercing.

'I'm worthless.' The thought arose, clear and defined, amidst the deafening noise of fear. The words echoed, over and over, like a persistent echo. The memory of the previous night, of the shadows, of the betrayal of his own body, filled him with shame. 'I shouldn't be here,' the words emerged as a silent lament in his mind, 'Why am I still here?'

Despair threatened to consume him, pulling him deeper into the darkness of his own insecurities. Every second felt like an eternity, and despite the cold of the floor, he felt heat, a burning heat on his cheeks and forehead.

However, amidst the cacophony of his agitated thoughts, a soft murmur emerged, offering a respite, an anchor point. 'Breathe...' urged the voice, softly, like the whisper of a night breeze. 'Control...'

Eamon closed his eyes, clinging to that small voice. He began to count mentally, trying to find a steady rhythm for his erratic breathing. 'One... Two... Three...' Each number was a reminder of the here and now, a desperate attempt to anchor himself to the present moment and move away from the abyss of panic.

Just as he felt he was beginning to gain ground in his internal struggle, a gentle knock on the bathroom door startled him. The kind and familiar voice of Mrs. Jenkins echoed from the other side. "Eamon, are you hiding? I need your help with this stubborn stain." The words, though innocent, brought a wave of reality that threatened to burst the bubble Eamon had locked himself in.

Taking a deep breath and wiping the tears from his face, he tried to reply with as much normalcy as he could muster. "Yes, I'm coming. Just a moment." The simple act of speaking, of interacting, seemed to be the distraction he needed to finally emerge from the dark pit of panic.

The sun had already set, and the orphanage hallway revealed the traces of daily life: muddy shoes, ink stains, and accumulated dust. Eamon pushed a mop with precise and rhythmic movements. Each pass was an opportunity to reflect, each scrub a reminder of what had passed.

His cleaning days began as a punishment. He had been caught by the stern Mr. Thompson, who hadn't bought his excuses of insomnia and nighttime walks. Eamon had no choice but to nod and accept the punishment. Thus began his evenings with Mrs. Jenkins. But what might have been a tedious sentence for others turned out to be a refuge for him. An escape that ironically anchored him to reality. The orphanage hallways offered him a space of tranquility, away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life. And Mrs. Jenkins, with her imaginative tales and warm presence, had become a friend. 'It's strange how things work,' Eamon reflected as he scrubbed a particularly stubborn stain.

His hands worked mechanically, and so his mind returned to the discovery in Mrs. Collins' office. 'I have to know more. I have to find out the truth,' he told himself. The memory of that night still remained fresh in Eamon's mind, the temptation to uncover the truth haunted him day and night. Every time he closed his eyes, the image of that mysterious woman who might have left him at the orphanage returned to him. However, the initial impulsive desire to rush to the hospital for answers was hampered by the reality of his situation.

It wasn't easy being a student at Fairbridge Academy, let alone trying to sneak out. Eamon had meticulously studied every possible escape route. The school's rigorous routine meant that each student was counted and recounted at different times of the day. Recess, lunchtime, even class changes; there was always someone watching. He sighed in frustration, murmuring to himself: "If only there was a window, a small opportunity..."

And, in fact, there might have been. During his double physical education shift, Eamon noticed that the teacher had a tendency to relax. He only took attendance once during the four hours, and after that, he seemed more interested in his own world than in what his students were doing. It was a glimmer of hope, but still, Eamon realized the challenges. Even if he managed to evade the teacher's gaze and escape the school grounds, he still faced the obstacle of being a young boy in a town where everyone knew each other.

The residents of Fairbridge wouldn't hesitate to point out a child who clearly should be in class. He could imagine the looks, the pointing fingers, and the murmur of conversations. He would be questioned even before taking a step outside the school. Moreover, he lacked the resources and knowledge to move discreetly.

As much as he wanted to, he couldn't deny the many holes in his plan. Eamon bit his lip, whispering, "I need more than just bravery. I need a solid plan." The truth was out there, but getting to it would require more cunning and strategy than he had initially thought.

As he continued scrubbing the floor, the reflected shine offered him a temporary mirror, showing his own determined expression. Despite the obstacles, Eamon knew he couldn't just give up searching for his past. The burning desire to know the truth fueled him and gave him purpose.

Eamon stared at a corner of the hallway, his mind sketching scenarios. What if he pretended to be sick? But no, that would probably only confine him to the orphanage infirmary or, worse yet, a bed at Fairbridge Academy under the watchful eye of some strict nurse. Besides, lying about something like that didn't feel right; he already carried enough secrets to add another.

The young man turned his attention to the nearby cleaning closet. He had heard stories of students hiding in closets or storage rooms for hours, waiting for it to get dark to move freely. However, the risk of being discovered and the potential repercussions deterred him. He was already on thin ice with Mr. Thompson; there was no need to make things worse with him.

Rumors among the children spoke of the repercussions faced by those who broke the rules. And Mrs. Jenkins, despite her kind demeanor and fascinating stories, had not hesitated to confirm those rumors in some of their chats. Eamon could hear her voice, her warning tone: "Children who break the rules here suffer the consequences, Eamon. There are always eyes watching."

His thoughts came and went, searching for a solution; an idea began to germinate in his mind. Magic. Although he was still in the early stages of understanding and practice, Eamon knew it was his ace in the hole. Yes, levitating objects and opening doors were useful skills, but there had to be more. Was there a way magic could make him invisible or at least go unnoticed? If he could perfect that kind of skill, it could be his ticket out.

As he slid the mop across the floor, the shine of the polish reflected less clearly than the internal reflections dominating Eamon's mind. Magic, his constant and sometimes elusive companion, had been an area where he had made tangible progress, though he had also known its limits.

Since discovering his abilities, magic had been his refuge. Every object he had managed to levitate, every door he had opened with a simple gesture, were testimonies to his progress. "I'm getting there," he whispered to himself, recalling the early days of struggle and the satisfaction he now felt with those small victories. It was a tangible reminder that not everything was out of his reach, that with perseverance he could overcome barriers.

However, those same victories made him even more aware of the mountains he had yet to climb. Every time he tried to go further, attempting more complex or advanced skills, he met an invisible wall. It was as if, beyond a certain point, magic became more reticent, more elusive, like a wild animal that shies away from being tamed.

Whispers of frustration mingled with his thoughts, "I'm so close, yet so far." He found himself trapped in that in-between space, where what he had achieved no longer fully satisfied him, but what he desired seemed an unreachable step away. Eamon sometimes felt like a child on the shore of a lake, seeing the reflection of the moon in the water, but unable to touch it, no matter how much he reached out.

Yet, there was an unyielding determination in him. He knew he had come a long way and that, with time and patience, he would eventually find a way to get closer to magic, to understand its deeper mysteries. "I just need more time," he thought, as he continued with his task, letting his reflections flow with the cadence of the movement of his hands.

While the haze of his magical thoughts still clouded Eamon's mind, the cheerful voice of Mrs. Jenkins brought him back to reality.

"If you keep staring at that brush with that intensity, I'm sure it will disappear," Mrs. Jenkins observed, a playful smile playing at the edges of her lips.

Eamon blinked, realizing he had gotten lost in his own reflections and had been staring intently at the brush in his hand. He smiled, a little embarrassed. "Sorry, Mrs. Jenkins. I was... reflecting on some things."

Mrs. Jenkins approached with a playful expression, "Are you getting bored of helping me with the cleaning? I must admit I was surprised you kept coming even after Mr. Thompson's punishment ended. But you've always had that charming courtesy, so I didn't want to question it."

Eamon lowered his gaze to the brush in his hand and then back to Mrs. Jenkins. "I enjoy your company, Mrs. Jenkins. And, in a way, cleaning has been... therapeutic for me."

Mrs. Jenkins paused for a moment, her gaze settling on Eamon with a mix of surprise and curiosity. "Therapeutic, you say? That's not a word I often hear from someone your age, especially in relation to cleaning," she replied with a touch of humor.

Eamon smiled shyly, searching for the right words. "I guess it gives me time to think, to reflect. So much has happened in my life in such a short time, and these moments help me... digest it all."

Mrs. Jenkins nodded, sitting down on a nearby chair. "Yes, I can understand that. Sometimes, the simplest moments provide the clarity we need. Although," she added with a conspiratorial smile, "cleaning is not exactly one of my moments of clarity."

Eamon chuckled softly. "Well, maybe it's not the cleaning itself, but the company it's shared with. You have many stories, Mrs. Jenkins, and I'd love to hear them."

She laughed. "Oh, the stories I could tell you! But tell me, is there anything in particular you'd like to know? I've lived in this region for a long time and have witnessed many changes."

Eamon's eyes sparkled with interest. "Well, I've heard rumors about the history of the orphanage, but they're always fragments and scattered pieces. I'd love to know the true story if you're willing to share it."

Mrs. Jenkins settled into her chair, a distant look in her eyes as she began to delve into memories of the past. "Alright," she finally said. "Let me tell you the story of St. Elias Orphanage, a place that has been home and mystery to many over the years..."

Mrs. Jenkins took a deep breath before beginning. "Well, Eamon, this place has a long and rich history. Originally, this building wasn't an orphanage. It was the residence of the Wentworths, a wealthy family who, in their time, were known for their influence in local trade and politics."

Eamon interrupted, his curiosity evident. "The Wentworths? I've heard that name somewhere. Were they famous?"

Mrs. Jenkins nodded. "Oh, yes. They were the talk of the region in the late 18th century. They built this majestic Georgian mansion as a symbol of their wealth and power. Imagine grand parties, dances, and banquets in these very halls where we now play and learn."

The young man looked around, trying to imagine the opulence of those times. "It seems like it would have been an incredible era. What happened next? Why did they leave the house?"

Mrs. Jenkins sighed. "Fortune is elusive, young Eamon. With the arrival of the 19th century, the Wentworths faced misfortunes one after another. Financial losses, mysterious deaths... and so began the rumors of a curse on the family and the house."

Eamon furrowed his brow, clearly intrigued. "A curse? Why?"

She shrugged. "I don't know for sure. There are many versions, but the truth has been buried by time. However, what I do know is that by 1850, the grand mansion was left abandoned."

"But how did it go from being an abandoned house to this orphanage?" Eamon asked.

"Ah, that's one of the most inspiring parts of the story," Mrs. Jenkins began with a smile. "Father Elias Morgan, a priest with a vision and a big heart, saw the potential of the building. With the help of the community, he transformed this place into a refuge for homeless children."

Eamon leaned forward, fully engrossed in the story. "It must have been a radical change, right?"

She nodded. "Indeed. Under Father Elias's leadership, the orphanage became a place of hope. And although the administration has changed several times, it has always maintained its charitable mission."

Eamon reflected for a moment, then asked, "Does the community still believe in the supposed curse?"

Mrs. Jenkins looked around as if fearing the walls might hear. "There are those who believe the Wentworth curse still lurks in these halls. But, at the end of the day, this orphanage has been a home and refuge for many. Despite its dark secrets, the community continues to love it."

As Mrs. Jenkins recounted the history of the orphanage, she seemed to get lost in the vastness of her memories. As Eamon listened, he couldn't help but be aware of the orphanage's peculiar atmosphere. It was that same nuance he had felt walking its corridors; something that kept him on edge, as if every shadow and echo whispered a secret he couldn't yet decipher.

"Have you ever noticed anything... peculiar about this place, Mrs. Jenkins?" Eamon asked, choosing his words carefully.

Mrs. Jenkins took a moment before answering, her eyes sweeping the hallway as if searching for answers in its walls. "Every old building has its quirks, dear. Twilights where you swear you see shadows move, unexplained sounds you attribute to the building's age. But, if you ask me, I think the orphanage simply has... character."

Eamon nodded, still feeling uneasy. "Maybe that's it," he admitted, though his feelings told him there was more beneath the surface.

After a brief silence, Mrs. Jenkins smiled. "Well, it looks like we've done an excellent job here. These hallways are gleaming. How about heading to the kitchen and enjoying a cup of tea as a reward?"

Eamon smiled, grateful for the distraction. "Sounds perfect, Mrs. Jenkins."

As he followed the kind old lady to the kitchen, a lingering feeling told him that St. Elias Orphanage had more mysteries to uncover.

May 6, 1985

Eamon lay on his narrow bed, staring intently at the orphanage ceiling. The dim moonlight, filtering through the thin curtains of the closed window, cast flickering shadows that danced on the ceiling. But Eamon wasn't there to see them; his mind had transported him to another place, another time.

A silent whisper, almost like an icy wind, ran through his mind. 'Do you remember?' It spoke. His dark thoughts, those he had tried to hide and forget, clung to him with renewed strength. The images, sensations, and sounds of his past life began to surface, and with them, a growing anguish. In those moments, the line between past and present seemed to blur.

The orphanage, with its history and mystery, should have been a refuge, a place to start anew. But every night, when the world was silent and only the murmur of the wind broke the silence, those memories returned, insistent, relentless. It was as if something, or someone, was trying to remind him of something, to bring to light truths that Eamon would rather leave buried.

He thought of the orphanage, its hallways and rooms, and how they seemed to resonate with his own echoes from the past. 'Is it the building? Or is it me?' He wondered. The walls, which once offered him security, now seemed to close in on him, squeezing him, reminding him of the oppression he felt in his previous life.

Although he struggled to push those thoughts away, there were days, like this one, when the tide of his past dragged him down, sinking him into the depths of his own mind. You have to face it, he articulated in his head, like a mantra to give himself strength. But how do you face something you don't fully understand, something that seems so distant and yet so present?

As he reflected, a noise from the upper bunk pulled him out of his trance. The feeling that something was not right grew inside him, and it was then that Eamon, leaving behind his dark thoughts, began to focus on the here and now.

Amid his own internal whirlwinds, Eamon had forgotten he wasn't alone in the room. Looking up, he saw Henry tossing and turning in his bed, sheets clinging to his sweaty body, and his face flushed and agitated. His broken, almost delirious whispers faded into the cold room air, while the sound of the curtain, swayed by a gentle breeze, added a melancholic touch to the scene.

An intense sensation, almost like a buzzing, resonated throughout the room, sharpening Eamon's senses. A wave of concern overtook him. The dark memories and shadows of his past faded in an instant as his attention fully centered on his roommate. "Henry," he murmured, extending a trembling hand to touch the boy's forehead. The heat emanating from it confirmed his worst fears: Henry had a fever, and it wasn't a common fever, it was unnaturally high.

Eamon stood up urgently, his own concerns forgotten in the face of the immediate situation. Without wasting time, he ran through the dark hallways of the orphanage, his heart pounding in his chest. Every second counted, and he had to find help. Finally, after what he felt like an eternity, he found the orphanage caretakers. He quickly explained the situation, and seeing the seriousness on his face, they didn't hesitate to follow him back to the room.

The adults, upon seeing Henry's condition, exchanged several glances among themselves as if they knew what was happening. Swiftly, they decided it was best to take Henry to the hospital. Eamon, in the meantime, stood frozen for a moment, watching as they took his friend away. A feeling of helplessness enveloped him, wishing he could do more for Henry.

He looked for something Henry might need at the hospital. His gaze settled on the teddy bear, an old and worn-out toy that the boy cherished. Without a second thought, he grabbed it and ran out, following the adults and his friend outside the orphanage.