May 11, 1985

Eamon was in the backyard of the orphanage, a vast space that had witnessed laughter and games, but now only held the echo of his own thoughts. The young boy's trembling hands intertwined as he absentmindedly played with a small stone he had found on the ground, rubbing it against the palm of his hand, as if seeking comfort in something tangible. He had tried to practice his magic; levitating a stone was child's play for him, and yet he couldn't concentrate enough in these moments.

An inner whisper, as gentle as the touch of a feather, initiated his train of thought. 'Henry...' That simple word unleashed a wave of emotions in him. The singing of the birds in the background became a distant melody, and the rustling of the wind in the leaves whispered memories and concerns to him.

'Why Henry? Why now?' He wondered, closing his eyes for a moment. He visualized the night when Henry fell ill, the paleness of his skin, the fever that burned on his forehead. Even though his friend was unconscious, Eamon felt like he could hear his disjointed whispers, like confusing messages he desperately tried to decipher.

The breeze caressed his face, carrying with it the characteristic scent of the courtyard, earth, and fresh greenery. Despite being surrounded by nature, Eamon's world felt confined, trapped between the invisible walls of worry and uncertainty.

Another whisper emerged; this time more inquisitive: 'What if Henry doesn't wake up? What if all of this is deeper than it seems? What if the orphanage, with its secrets and shadows, has something to do with it?' Although these thoughts were terrifying, Eamon couldn't help but let them invade his mind, intertwining with his memories and hopes.

With each whisper, with each thought, Eamon articulated answers, solutions, and possibilities in his mind. But all of them seemed to dissolve in the vast ocean of uncertainty that surrounded him.

Eamon watched as the back door of the orphanage slowly moved, allowing the fresh evening breeze to enter. The silhouette of Director Collins appeared in the doorway, and upon realizing her presence, Eamon immediately stood up, wiping his hands on his pants. The expression on Director Collins' face, always so composed, showed a mixture of concern and a weariness Eamon had never seen before.

"Eamon," she said in a tone that sought to be reassuring, though the underlying seriousness was evident. "The doctors have been in touch with us. Henry is under observation. There hasn't been a significant change."

Eamon's chest tightened. Although relieved by the news that Henry hadn't gotten worse, uncertainty continued to haunt him.

"Director Collins," he began cautiously, "I understand that perhaps it's not the best time, but would it be possible... to visit Henry?"

Director Collins seemed to consider it for a moment. "Hospitals can be overwhelming places, Eamon. And I'm not sure if it's the best environment for someone your age, especially considering all you've been through."

Eamon swallowed hard, struggling with the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. "I understand, but I feel like I have to be there, for him. Henry... he's my friend. And I've heard that having loved ones nearby can help. Maybe if he just hears my voice..."

A shadow passed over Mrs. Collins' face, and her eyes, which used to be so penetrating and resolute, seemed to hide something. Doubt? Compassion? It was hard to tell. "If the doctors allow it, and with certain conditions, maybe you can see him. But I can't promise anything."

Eamon nodded, feeling a small weight lift off his shoulders. "Thank you, Director Collins. I'll do whatever it takes."

She gave him a small smile. "I know, Eamon. Go get ready. If all goes well, you'll be able to see him soon."

The young boy felt hope returning to him, albeit in the midst of a sea of uncertainty. Director Collins, on the other hand, returned inside the orphanage, leaving Eamon with his thoughts and hopes in the courtyard illuminated by the afternoon light.


May 12, 1985

The hospital building, with its white facade, gleamed in the rays of the setting sun. Although Eamon had been in hospitals before, each visit filled him with a sense of unease. Director Collins' hand rested firmly on his shoulder, guiding him towards the main entrance.

Inside, a sterilized, almost metallic, smell greeted him. The muted voices of nurses, doctors, and visitors formed a constant cacophony. Soft murmurs that would rise from time to time, only to be reduced to complete monotony, characterized the place. Director Collins led Eamon through various corridors until they reached a room away from the hustle and bustle.

There lay Henry, so still and pale that, for a brief moment, Eamon was afraid to approach. The white sheets contrasted with his skin, and the various monitors and cables surrounding his bed emitted beeps and flashing lights, silent witnesses to his fragile condition. Despite the fear, Eamon approached with slow steps and sat in the chair beside the bed, gently taking Henry's hand, which felt cold and weak.

As Eamon tried to connect with Henry, Director Collins spoke quietly with a couple of doctors outside. Eamon decided to stand up and with his ear pressed against the partially open door, he managed to catch scattered fragments of their conversation.

"... stable levels, but it is that case, ... the Wentworths..."

"... the last child, Julian, right?... improvement on the thirteenth day. But then, that active boy ended up..."

There was a pause, an unsettling silence, no murmur of voices or anything to indicate that the conversation continued, and then someone changed the subject without concluding the thought.

"Some say it's a curse, but those are just old wives' tales. My grandmother used to tell me those stories", one of the doctors muttered.

Director Collins' voice interrupted, firm and clear: "All of that is nonsense. Henry is strong. He'll be fine."

The conversation stopped there. Eamon remained thoughtful, trying to piece together the loose fragments of what he had just heard, feeling a shroud of confusion enveloping him. What was this about the Wentworths? And what had happened to this Julian person? With his heart pounding, he returned to the chair beside Henry, determined to be by his side in this mysterious and unsettling situation.

After what felt like hours, Director Collins returned to the room, her expression noticeably more tense and worn than before her encounter with the doctors. She sat beside Eamon and took a deep breath before speaking. "Eamon," she began in a tone attempting to be calm, "Henry is in the best possible hands. They are doing everything they can for him." Despite her words, there was a nuance in her gaze, a deep concern, that revealed that things were more complicated than she let on. Eamon, remembering the snippets of conversation he had overheard, felt a knot in his stomach, sensing that there were hidden truths behind Henry's situation.


May 19, 1985

Eamon walked through the hospital corridors, each step echoing with the weight of thirteen long days. Thirteen days in which Henry had remained trapped in a sleep from which he couldn't wake up. Each passing day, Eamon had marked on a calendar, recalling the doctors' words about Julian and that mysterious "thirteenth day."

Over these days, he had developed a routine: wake up, do some chores, visit the hospital, and mark the day on his calendar. Each mark represented one more day of hope and, at the same time, a reminder of the mysterious course this illness or curse seemed to be taking.

'The thirteenth day... was there something special about that number? Some old legend or tale I've heard before?' His thoughts swirled in his mind, weaving patterns and insinuations. 'Seven and thirteen, magical numbers,' whispered in his mind. 'Magic must be involved somehow, even if I don't know how.'

As he walked, he allowed himself to be enveloped by the shadows of his thoughts, so deep and immersive that he almost lost sight of the purpose of his visit. He needed to see Henry, and make sure he was okay.

Eamon walked slowly down the hospital corridor, each step resonating with the tension of the days Henry had been unconscious. The hallway lights cast irregular shadows on the walls, and the soft hum of the surroundings seemed to whisper incomprehensible secrets that only he could hear.

As he approached Henry's room, movement to his left caught his attention. From his position, Eamon could glimpse, in the reflection of a window, a tall, slender figure that seemed to be stealthily exiting Henry's room. The stranger was wearing a long, dark coat and a hat that concealed their face.

What surprised Eamon was not just the presence of this figure but the complete indifference of the hospital staff. A nurse walked right past the figure without even looking at it as if it didn't exist or was invisible to her eyes. Eamon felt a chill. 'Why can I see it when no one else seems to?' he wondered.

Unbeknownst to him, the figure had already disappeared at the end of the hallway, and Eamon, with a mix of fear and curiosity, hurriedly entered Henry's room.

There, to his astonishment, he found Henry awake. His eyes, though a bit cloudy, focused on Eamon with recognition. Eamon, flooded with relief, almost forgot for a moment about the mysterious figure. But the unsettling encounter lingered in his mind.

"Henry," whispered Eamon, trying to control the emotion in his voice. "Are you okay? Who was that man?"

Henry blinked several times as if trying to focus his vision. "I don't know who you're talking about," he murmured, but there was a shadow of doubt in his words, as if he was trying to remember something just out of reach.

Before they could continue their conversation, the room filled with the murmur of voices and the hurried entrance of doctors. They began examining Henry, conducting a series of tests and asking questions to determine his condition. Lights flickered, machines beeped, and the air was filled with a mixture of relief and bewilderment.

Through the bustle, Eamon stayed by Henry's side, watching with keen interest every movement and listening to every word. There was something familiar about the terms and procedures, an echo of his past life. But in that moment, medical technique and jargon were secondary. The only thing that mattered was that Henry, his closest friend, had returned from a dark and distant place and was now there, alive and conscious.

For a moment, all fears, all uncertainties, were pushed to the background. Eamon could only feel gratitude and happiness.

Eamon left Henry's room, leaving the busy doctors to perform the tests that would confirm his friend's improvement. For days, he had been worried about Henry's health, and finally seeing him awake and recovering relieved him greatly. However, a fleeting and mysterious whisper slipped into his mind, like a breeze barely touching his consciousness. "The woman..." it whispered within him.

Suddenly, like a flash of insight, Eamon realized something crucial. 'Why didn't I think of this before? I'm in the hospital; I should find the woman who left me at the orphanage.' His concern for Henry had clouded his quest for answers, but now he had a unique opportunity.


Eamon knew he had to be discreet in his search for the mysterious woman who had left him at the orphanage. His steps led him through the hospital's hallways, a maze of corridors and rooms where people's lives intersected in a constant flow. The task seemed overwhelming, but Eamon was determined.

The pretext of needing the bathroom formed in his mind. It was a common excuse, and no one would suspect a child who simply needed a moment of privacy. Director Collins nodded in understanding when he asked for permission, and Eamon hurriedly made his way toward the hospital's bathrooms.

However, instead of entering the bathrooms, Eamon changed course at the last moment. His feet carried him down a different hallway, one that took him further from Director Collins' view.

Eamon's search eventually led him to a partially open door. It was a hospital room, but not just any room. The door had a plaque that read "Patient Room." Eamon had a hunch. Could it be that the mysterious woman was here?

With caution, he pushed the partially open door and entered the room. What he saw took his breath away. The woman lay there, her eyes closed in a deep sleep. Eamon noted the details of her appearance: her dark, smooth hair cascaded over her shoulders. She appeared to be relatively young, although her face was marked by fatigue and worry. Her pale skin seemed even more immaculate in contrast to the hospital gown she was wearing. She was an enigmatic presence that left him intrigued and baffled.

'She looks nothing like me... maybe she really isn't my mother,' thought Eamon with a hint of disappointment.

He approached the bed, his senses sharpening as a buzzing, beyond the ambient noise he had grown accustomed to, became apparent. It was then that he noticed the most surprising detail: a golden ring on the woman's hand. 'I'm sure that wasn't there before,' Eamon noticed as he examined it closely.

With delicacy, he removed the ring from the woman's tender hand, noticing with fascination an inscription on its interior: 'Rootes Depe, Hevene Endelees.'

The words resonated in his mind like a distant echo. He didn't know what they meant, but he was sure they were important. Without thinking twice, Eamon spoke the words aloud, as if he wanted to invoke something. And in the blink of an eye, he himself disappeared from the room as if he had never been there in the first place.