Beneath His Heart

chapter 10

April's pov

The morning after the storm felt like some strange kind of rebirth.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting the pale lavender blouse I had ironed the night before. My hands trembled just slightly — not from nerves, exactly, but from the weight of everything I was pretending to leave behind. I tied my hair into a neat half-up style, letting the rest fall naturally over my shoulders. My throat still bore the faintest mark from last night’s horror, but I covered it with a soft scarf.

No one needed to know. Not yet.

Outside, the air was crisp and fresh. The scent of rain still clung to the mist floating above the wet pavement. Blackmount Estate so grand, so secretive — seemed to blur behind me as I walked toward the waiting car.

I took a deep breath.

Today was supposed to be a beginning. Something normal. Something mine.

Newville Elementary sat nestled near the edge of the countryside, surrounded by towering oaks and sleepy maples. It looked more like a cozy cottage than a school — red-bricked walls with ivy curling up the sides, wide sunlit windows, and a white-painted fence wrapping around a small playground.

As I stepped through the front gates, a flutter of nerves danced in my chest. My heels tapped quietly on the tiled floor of the hallway. I’d taught in New York before — noisy, bustling classrooms filled with sharp-tongued city kids — but this was different. Quieter. Slower. Kinder, maybe.

“Ms. Stroll?” a bright voice called out as I neared the reception desk.

“Yes,” I said, forcing a warm smile.

A petite woman with honey-blonde curls and round glasses stood to greet me. She extended her hand. “Welcome to Newville Elementary! I’m Claire, the administrative assistant. We’re so glad you’re here. First grade, right?”

I nodded. “Yes. It’s my favorite age to teach.”

Claire laughed. “Brave woman. Most say third or fourth is easier. First-graders are adorable little hurricanes. Come on, I’ll show you your room.”

We walked down a cheerful hallway, the walls lined with student artwork and inspirational quotes in big, looping letters. It all felt so genuine. Like someone had poured love into every corner.

Room 1B was on the east side of the building. When we stepped in, my breath caught.

Sunlight spilled through the windows, bathing the tiny desks and colorful rugs in gold. Bookshelves lined the walls, overflowing with picture books, paper animals, and finger-paint portraits. On the teacher’s desk sat a placard made of cheerful block letters: Ms. Stroll.

Claire smiled beside me. “You’ll meet the other teachers in the lounge later. But first — your students. They’ll start trickling in soon. It’s a half-day today, just to ease everyone back in.”

“Thank you, Claire,” I said softly, my heart swelling and trembling all at once. “It’s... perfect.”

She left me to settle in, and soon enough, the creak of the door and the shuffle of little feet filled the room. Giggles. Whispers. Nervous hellos.

I greeted each child with a gentle smile, kneeling to their level, asking names and listening to the things they loved — dinosaurs, rainbows, their pets, their baby brothers. Some clung to parents at the door; others walked in like they owned the place.

Then... I saw her.

a little girl with long, dark hair braided into two neat plaits, each one resting against her shoulders with precision. Her eyes were a soft hazel, steady and unblinking as they locked onto mine. She didn’t smile fully, just a faint twitch at the corners of her lips, like she knew something I didn’t.

There was something about her — the way she tilted her head ever so slightly, the quiet intensity in her stare — that made my stomach twist. Familiarity brushed against the edge of my mind, fleeting and ungraspable. Had I seen her before?

I crouched down, trying to match her eye level. “Hi there,” I said gently. “What’s your name?”

She didn’t answer.

Just turned, that soft, knowing smile still lingering on her face, and walked silently to a seat by the window.

I watched her for a moment longer, unease prickling along my spine — a wave of déjà vu settling over me like a whisper from another life. But before I could make sense of it, a small hand tugged at my sleeve, and I moved to another child.

The rest of the morning passed in a flurry of art projects, name tags, and a read-aloud that made them all giggle. I found my rhythm — the comforting pace of managing chaos, coaxing smiles, and reminding little ones to use their indoor voices. This was my world. My safe place.

By noon, most of the kids had gone home. Just a few remained, waiting for late pickups.

I headed to the staff lounge — a warm space filled with mismatched chairs, the smell of burnt coffee, and a worn bulletin board with pictures of past class parties and bake sales.

Several teachers were already there, chatting and unwinding. I introduced myself, answered a few polite questions about my move from New York, and quietly avoided anything deeper.

I didn’t mention my marriage.

I didn’t say I was living at Blackmount Estate.

I didn’t say I woke up gasping for air just hours ago.

Instead, I smiled. Laughed. Held my paper cup of bitter coffee like a shield.

“Hey, I’m Watson,” said a tall guy with messy brown hair and a crooked grin. He leaned against the table beside me, easy and confident.

“April,” I replied.

“You’re the new first-grade teacher, right? The kids are already obsessed with you. I teach fourth. If you ever need help herding the chaos, I’m your guy.”

I offered a polite smile. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Where are you staying, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I... haven’t said, actually,” I said carefully.

“Oh? Are you local?”

“Just moved nearby.”

He nodded, letting the moment pass. “Well, if you need help settling in, Newville’s small — but full of surprises.”

I gave another smile, then looked down into my coffee. I could feel his interest, warm and curious, but my heart wasn’t ready. Not now. Not when everything inside me felt fragile — like a house of cards, just one breath from falling.

After a while, I excused myself and returned to my classroom. The quiet was comforting.

I started organizing books, arranging crayons into jars, and wiping the whiteboard clean.

Then I remembered the little girl.

I picked up the attendance sheet and scanned through the names and photos of each student there I found out

Lily Ashley

Just then, a knock on the door snapped me out of the trance. I shut the file hastily and looked up to see Watson standing at the doorway, hands in his pockets.

"Hey," he said, a bit hesitantly, "do you want me to drop you home?"

"Thanks, but I’m fine," I replied, trying not to sound too dismissive. If I told him I was heading to visit my grandmother, he might insist on coming along. And I didn’t want that. Not today.

I was going to see her—my grandmother. She lived in an elderly home in Newville. One of the reasons I had taken this job, far from the chaos of my past life, was to be close to her. That had been my only dream for a while now. Just me and her.

And now, I was caught in something far more complicated. Still, as long as I could see her, everything else felt bearable. She was all I had left.

"Okay then, that’s fine. See you tomorrow," Watson said, scratching the back of his head with a sheepish smile.

"Bye," I replied, returning the smile in a friendly tone.

I locked my cabin and stepped outside. Most of the students had already left, but a few groups of teenagers from high school lingered near the gates, chatting and laughing. I slung my bag over my shoulder and began walking to the bus stop. That morning, I had taken the car to school, but I’d asked the driver not to return for me. At the time, I thought classes would run late. Now that they ended earlier than expected, I had enough time to visit my grandmother.

That was when I noticed the car.

A sleek, expensive vehicle pulled up near the front gate. For a moment, I thought it might be Alexander’s. But it wasn’t.

The car stopped in front of a little girl—Lily. The same girl from my class.

A graceful young woman stepped out of the passenger side and helped Lily into the car. Maybe her mother. The door closed softly behind them, and the engine purred to life. As the car began to pull away, Lily turned and looked at me.

Our eyes met for only a second, but it was enough.

She wasn’t like the other children I had seen—bubbling with excitement when their parents picked them up. There was a quiet sadness in her expression, as though she carried something far too heavy for her young shoulders.

Then the car disappeared into the distance, leaving only a trail of dust behind.

I turned toward the bus stop. After a few quiet minutes, the bus arrived. I climbed aboard and took a seat near the window. As the bus rattled along the road, the motion slowly lulled me into a drowsy state.

And that’s when the memories began to rise—soft, blurry fragments of childhood. Laughter in the garden. The scent of my mother’s perfume. My father’s warm voice telling bedtime stories. My grandmother brushing my hair. And amidst them all, the familiar face of a boy with eyes that used to look at me like I was his whole world.

Young Alexander.