Tangled paths

chapter 2

ARIADNE'S POV

Morning came with no sunlight, only an aching back, and sleep clung to my limbs as I sat up.

Beside me stood Elsie, her thin blanket folded neatly at the foot of her bed.

“Morning Elsie” She caught my eyes but looked away nervously.

Strange because she always nodded at me every morning.

Elsie and I are among the girls who have been at the orphanage the longest. While other girls came and went like drifting wind, we remained like stubborn roots in potting soil.

That morning, I felt it again—that hum in the air. The kind that comes before a storm, when the clouds still pretend to be innocent. I didn't know. Not yet.

But I knew Sister Elodia’s silence during the inspection was never a good sign.

Later, after the inspection, Sister Elodia’s voice sliced through the quiet like a knife.

“You ought to skip breakfast and lunch today. Your hips are already on the larger side; you don't need your thighs joining them as well.”

I sighed. “Of course, Sister.”

She was right, but that didn't mean I wanted to skip a meal. Skipping breakfast always made me grumpy.

I skipped breakfast and lunch like Sister Elodia said. My stomach twisted all day, a dull roar beneath my ribs. By noon, the world felt off—too slow, too loud, too bright. I moved on autopilot, hands trembling as I scrubbed the floor, eyes stinging from more than just the soap.

Later that day, during night inspection, it happened.

Sister Elodia’s heels clicked against the tiles like a ticking clock. I stood in line, trying not to sway from the dizziness, when she paused by my bunk. I saw it before she spoke—the corner of a worn sketchbook poking out from under my mattress.

She pulled it free and flipped it open. Pages filled with mockery. Sister Ruth with vampire fangs. Sister Elodia mid-thigh with the words “Mother of all Misery” scrawled underneath.

My breath caught.

She turned to me, her face masked with calm rage.

“You think this is funny?”

“No,” I started, but the word cracked. My throat was dry, my voice shaky, and the room had gone still.

“Who will be this bold?” she snapped. “You have always been the difficult one—always silent, always watching.”

“I—I…”

“It was under your mattress,” she spat.

I looked at Elsie instinctively. She didn’t meet my gaze. Her head was bowed, her hands clenched tightly by her side.

Maybe she panicked. Maybe she hid it in a rush. Maybe she didn’t expect it to come back to this.

But I couldn't shake off how her silence, loud and piercing at that moment, felt like a betrayal.

I could’ve told the truth. Could’ve said it wasn’t mine. But what good would that do now? She’d already decided. They always did.

The room watched in stiff silence.

“Mocking us,” she continued, her voice rising, “after everything we do for you ungrateful girls. This is how you repay God’s mercy?”

I stood there, numb.

Still, I said nothing. Elsie wouldn’t speak. And I wouldn’t drag her down, even if she had already let me drown.

“Pack your things,” Sister Elodia said sharply, her voice slicing through the still air.

“We don’t keep girls who bite the hand that feeds them. Neither do we harbour poison. You’ve had enough years under this roof. At your age, you should be grateful we kept you this long. Most girls your age are already out there—working, married, gone. You’re not a child anymore. If you’re old enough to mock us, you’re old enough to fend for yourself. And you leave this minute.”

She turned on her heel, robes whipping past my face like smoke.

My ears rang with the finality of her words.

Pack your things.

I stood there, rooted to the spot as if my limbs had forgotten how to move. The world seemed to blur for a moment like my balance had been knocked off-centre. Everyone was watching, but the room felt far away, voices muffled, faces blurred. I couldn't tell if it was shame, rage, or just the ache of being discarded like something worn out.

A lump crawled up my throat. I swallowed it down.

There was no protest. No tears. Not here. Not in front of them.

I turned on stiff legs, each step away from Sister Elodia feeling heavier than the last, as though the ground itself wanted to pull me back and make me stay—even if no one else did.

Inside, everything was unravelling.

I wasn’t just being sent out of the orphanage.

I was being erased from it.

Clara and her minions snickered, their eyes glinting with cruel delight as they watched me. “ Loser”, she sneered.

As I folded my threadbare clothes into a plastic bag, Elsie appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were rimmed red.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

I didn’t answer. What could I say?

“I didn’t think she’d find it. I hid it quickly. I didn’t mean for you—”

“To be thrown out?” I laughed bitterly. “Well. She did.”

She stepped closer.

“Aria, please…”

“Don’t. You had a choice. You could’ve said something. You still can.”

She looked down.

That told me everything.

“You were all I had here,” I whispered. “And even you—”

I couldn’t finish the sentence as Sister Ruth cut me off.

“You may leave now.”

The plastic bag in my hands felt heavier than it should’ve. It held everything I owned—a cracked brush, a cardigan, a single pair of socks without holes, the gowns I stitched myself, and the Book of Psalms Sister Agnes once gave me, the only one who ever smiled when I passed.

I kept expecting Elsie to come. To stop them. To at least try. But the hallway behind me remained empty.

The iron gate groaned open, and I stepped outside barefoot. My shoes were taken, "for the next girl," they’d said. I didn’t argue.

Outside, the world was grey and unwelcoming. The air had the dry bitterness of early spring—not cold enough to freeze you, but sharp enough to sting. I walked slowly, the gravel biting into the soles of my feet. With every step, the orphanage loomed smaller behind me, its walls shrinking into memory.

I didn't cry.

There was no one left to cry for.

A woman passed me with her child, clutching her bag a little tighter as she glanced at me.

I must’ve looked like a ghost—hair tangled, clothes too thin, eyes too tired. I kept walking.

I found a spot under a narrow bridge just outside the train station. The shadows swallowed me whole, and for the first time, I let my body sag against the cold stone wall, too numb to feel it. I tucked my knees under my chin, listening to the rumble of trains in the distance and the occasional bark of a stray dog echoing through the tunnels.

I pressed the Book of Psalms to my chest.

He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.

I didn’t know the verse number. Just the words.

That was the moment I decided:

If the world didn’t want me, I’d find a way to want myself.

Even if it meant starting with nothing.