A Year Older
1228 Words
Chapter Six
Birthdays were supposed to be gentle things.
Mother Loveth believed this with her whole heart. And after the incident with Moses discovering that she wasn't really his mother, she thought to make this day extra special.
She woke before dawn, as she always did, but today her hands trembled as she lit the stove. The orphanage was still asleep, wrapped in the soft hush of early morning, yet the air felt tight like a held breath that refused to release.
Moses was turning eight.
She whispered the number to herself as she stirred the pot of porridge. Eight years since the child had arrived on her doorstep with no name and no cry. Eight years of quiet miracles and quieter fears. Eight years of pretending the boundary had not noticed him.
She glanced toward her room.
He had not slept.
She knew it without checking.
Moses sat on the edge of his bed, feet bare against the cold floor, staring at his hands. They looked the same: small, dark, steady, but they didn’t feel the same. Something beneath his skin shifted, restless, like an animal trapped too long in a cage that had begun to c***k.
The dream from the night before clung to him.
Red eyes. A voice that sounded like his own. A forest that felt more real than the walls around him.
He swallowed and reached for the necklace on the bedside table.
The silver chain caught the weak morning light. The crescent pendant lay still, dull, harmless-looking. He hesitated.
Every other morning, he wore it without thinking. Mother Loveth never let him forget. She fastened it herself when he was younger, fingers lingering as though afraid he might slip away if she didn’t hold on long enough.
But today, today the metal felt wrong. Heavy as if he was watching himself to see how his story unfolds
Moses curled his fingers into a fist and pushed the necklace aside.
“I’m not a baby,” he muttered.
The words tasted bitter, defiant.
He stood and pulled on his shirt. As he moved, something flickered in the corner of his vision a blur of shadow where no shadow should be. He turned sharply.
Nothing.
Still, his pulse quickened.
By the time he stepped into the main hall, the orphanage buzzed with soft excitement. Jane hummed as she swept. The younger children whispered and giggled behind cupped hands. Someone had tied faded balloons to the banister.
Mother Loveth turned when she heard his footsteps.
Her smile bloomed instantly and then faltered.
“Moses,” she said gently, “your necklace”
“I didn’t want it today,” he replied too quickly.
The room stilled.
She crossed the distance between them in three careful steps and crouched to his height. Up close, she saw it: the faint glow under his skin, like moonlight struggling through cloud.
“Just for today,” she said softly. “For me.”
Something twisted in his chest. He shook his head.
“I feel… strange when I wear it.”
Her hand froze inches from his collarbone.
Strange.
The word echoed louder than it should have.
“Alright,” she said after a pause that lasted one heartbeat too long. “Just today.”
She kissed his forehead, but the warmth didn’t reach her eyes.
The cake was small. Vanilla, with uneven icing and eight thin candles. The children sang off-key, laughter spilling and overlapping. Moses stood among them, hands clenched at his sides, the sound pressing into him like a physical weight.
Every note scraped.
Every voice rang too sharp.
The flames on the candles wavered violently though no window was open.
Mother Loveth noticed.
She always noticed.
“Make a wish,” Jane urged.
Moses leaned forward.
The room tilted.
For a split second, he smelled smoke not from candles, but from something older. Something burned long ago. His vision flashed white, then red.
Run.
The word wasn’t spoken. It pushed.
He blew out the candles.
Darkness snapped into place like a lid.
The scream came moments later.
One of the younger boys had tripped. A scraped knee. Blood.
Nothing serious.
But the scent. A sharp pain crossed his eyelids.
Moses staggered back, breath hitching. His heart slammed against his ribs, each beat too loud, too fast. His nails bit into his palms as something deep inside him surged awake.
He didn’t see Mother Loveth move until she was in front of him, hands firm on his shoulders.
“Moses. Look at me.”
Her voice cut through the noise.
He tried.
But his eyes burned.
“Mother,” he whispered, panic threading his tone. “I don’t feel right.”
She pulled him into her arms.
That was the mistake.
The moment her skin touched his, the pressure inside him burst.
A shock rippled outward silent, violent.
Mother Loveth was thrown back as if struck by an unseen force. She hit the wall hard, the air knocked from her lungs. A picture frame shattered beside her.
The room erupted into chaos.
Children screamed.
Jane shouted his name.
Moses stared at his hands.
They were shaking.
“Mother,” he breathed.
She tried to rise but cried out instead. Pain lanced through her side not just from the hit but a sudden realization.
The sound shattered something in him.
“No,” he sobbed, backing away. “I didn’t... I didn’t mean...”
The lights flickered.
The windows rattled.
Jane grabbed the children, her face pale with terror. “Everyone out. Now!”
Mother Loveth pushed herself upright, wincing. She looked at Moses not with anger or with fear but with something far worse.
Understanding. She understood what she had to do.
“Moses,” she said, voice breaking, “listen to me.”
But he couldn’t.
The walls felt too close. The air too thin. That voice from the dream whispered again, warm and pleased.
See?
He screamed.
The sound wasn’t human.
The door slammed shut on its own.
The children were gone.
Jane was gone.
Only Moses and Mother Loveth remained.
She forced herself to her feet and reached for him.
He flinched.
The floor cracked beneath his bare feet.
Her breath hitched.
“Moses,” she whispered, tears spilling freely now, “you’re hurting me.”
The words pierced through the haze.
He collapsed to his knees.
“I don’t want to,” he cried. “Please. Make it stop.”
She swallowed hard.
There was only one way.
She moved slowly, deliberately, keeping her voice calm as her heart shattered. “I need you to go into the storage room, my love. Just for a little while.”
Fear flooded his face. “You’re locking me in.”
“No,” she lied gently. “I’m protecting you.”
And herself.
And everyone else.
He didn’t fight when she guided him inside. The moment the door closed, the air inside the room went cold.
The lock clicked.
Moses slid down the wall, curling into himself as sobs wracked his small body.
Outside, Mother Loveth pressed her forehead against the door, shaking.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “God forgive me.”
Inside the dark, Moses hugged his knees.
The voice returned, closer now.
Happy birthday, it murmured.
And somewhere beyond the walls, beyond the orphanage, beyond the boundary the forest answered.
- Writer
