Simons day began in the freezing shadows of the attic dormitory before the first light of dawn could even touch the "prawn-oil" horizon. There was no gentle wake-up call at Saint John's; only the sharp, rhythmic clanging of a handbell rung by a weary Sister. Simon would sit up, his breath visible in the damp morning air, and quickly pull on his worn, oversized sweater to hide the shiver running through his thin frame.
Being the oldest, he had to move fast. While the younger children were still rubbing sleep from their eyes, Simon was already downstairs in the bowels of the building, hauling heavy buckets of coal to feed the furnace and splashing freezing water onto his face to snap himself awake. The orphanage felt like a tomb in these early hours—quiet, cold, and smelling of damp stone and old wood. He moved like a shadow, his mind numb to the routine, preparing the hallway for the heavy footsteps of Father Grabby and the Sisters.
The bell rang again, and the children filed into the small, drafty chapel. Simon stood at the very back, his height making him stand out like a dark tower among the smaller orphans. The air was thick with the scent of cheap incense and melting wax. Father Grabby stood at the altar, his voice a low, gravelly drone that filled the silent room.
"We give thanks for the bread we receive and the roof above our heads. We pray for the humility to accept our lot and the strength to serve without complaint."
Simon kept his head bowed, his onyx eyes fixed on the floorboards. He recited the words with the others, a hollow chorus of voices that didn't feel like a prayer, but a requirement. As the "Amens" echoed through the stone room, Simon felt a strange prickling on the back of his neck. It was a feeling of being watched, not by the Father or the Sisters, but by something else entirely.
After breakfast, Simon and John (the boy who is two years younger than him) set out toward "Good Choice," the town's only supermarket. The morning air was crisp as they walked through the narrow, winding streets of their small English town, a place that felt frozen in time with its low-slung stone cottages and moss-covered brick walls. The town was nestled in a valley where the mist often clung to the ground long after sunrise, giving the rows of shops and the old clock tower a ghostly, distant appearance. Because it was the only market for miles, the area around Good Choice was the heart of the community; even at this early hour, the sidewalks were crowded with locals in heavy coats, the rattle of milk crates, and the low hum of gossip echoing against the cobblestones. It was a picturesque setting, but to Simon, the quaint beauty felt like a cage—a quiet, gray world where every face was familiar, yet he remained a permanent outsider, just a boy from Saint John's carrying a shopping list that wasn't his own.
Simon gripped the crumpled list in one hand and the heavy coin purse in the other, his knuckles white from the cold. Beside him, John was a blur of energy, his voice chirping away about a dog he had seen near the gates or a story he'd heard from the kitchens, but Simon remained a silent anchor, his onyx eyes scanning the crowd.
They pushed against the heavy glass doors, the sudden rush of heated air and the smell of fresh bread hitting them as they stepped inside. As usual, "Good Choice" was a hive of activity, packed with townspeople filling their carts and exchanging morning greetings. Simon grabbed a wire basket, the metal cold against his palm, and began navigating the narrow aisles with a practiced efficiency.
John skipped along beside him, reaching for the items Simon pointed out on the list. They moved past the towers of canned goods and the crates of winter vegetables, weaving through the crowd of shoppers. To the people of the town, they were just two boys in oversized, scratchy wool sweaters from the orphanage, nearly invisible among the bustling adults. Simon kept his head down, focused entirely on checking off the Sister's demands: flour, lard, salt, and the cheapest tea available.
Every time Simon reached into the basket to rearrange the heavy items, he felt the weight of the market's eyes on them—not with kindness, but with that distant, stinging pity he had grown to loathe. He just wanted to get the chores done and return to the silence of the road.
Once they had gathered everything on the list, they made their way toward the checkout counter. The cashier was a teenage girl with bored eyes who was rhythmically snapping her chewing gum, the sound sharp against the hum of the store. She glanced at them with a lazy, indifferent expression; she had seen the boys from Saint John's a thousand times before. To her, they weren't a mystery or even a person to greet, they were just a repetitive part of her morning shift. Without a word, she began scanning the items with practiced, sluggish movements, her mind clearly miles away from the crowded supermarket.
Simon and John stood side by side at the counter, waiting for the cashier to finish. Suddenly, a sharp prickle ran down Simon's spine, and the hair on his arms stood on end. A cold shiver washed over him, so sudden and intense that he nearly gasped. He tried to tell himself it was just a draft from the automatic doors or the chill of the frozen food aisle, but deep down, he knew this was different. It was an internal cold, a sensation he couldn't explain.
"Oh... so they've made the choice already."
The voice was calm and steady. Simon turned to find a man standing directly behind him in line. The stranger held a shopping basket loosely in one hand, but his eyes weren't on the shelves; they were fixed on something far beyond the glass doors of the market.
"Early this time..." the man murmured to himself. Simon didn't understand a word of it, and since it was none of his business, he quickly turned back toward the cashier. He just wanted to pay and leave.
"You feel it too, don't you?" the man asked, his voice cutting through the noise of the supermarket.
"Huh?" Simon blinked, looking back.
"That feeling," the stranger continued, his gaze now locking onto Simon's onyx eyes.
"Like warmth and ice at the same time. A sensation you can't quite put into words."
"Umm... I don't know what you're talk—"
"You've been Chosen," the man interrupted, his voice dropping to a low, knowing hum.
"Soon, the things you encounter will go far beyond anything you've ever seen in this world."
Simon stared at the man, his mind racing. Beside him, John glanced back and forth between the stranger and Simon, his face twisted in confusion, unable to grasp the strange weight of the conversation. The moment was shattered by the cashier, who barked out the total price with a sharp, impatient sigh. John yanked on Simon's sleeve to snap him out of it, and Simon quickly fumbled with the coins, paid the bill, and gathered the heavy bags.
They pushed back out through the heavy doors. Simon kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, but John couldn't help himself, he kept twisting around, glancing back through the glass at the strange man. Once they were safely out on the sidewalk and away from the crowd, John finally spoke up.
"Do you know him?"
Simon stopped in his tracks and looked back through the window. Inside the brightly lit store, the man was simply standing at the counter, calmly paying for his items like any other resident of the town. He wasn't looking at them anymore; he seemed perfectly ordinary, just another face in the morning rush. Simon watched him for a beat longer, then slowly shook his head.
"No, I don't know him... let's just go."
John nodded, though he still looked uneasy, and they began the walk back to Saint John's.
(Author's note)
If anyone is reading this novel, could you give me a review on whether it's going well? I'm looking for some encouragement and strength to keep writing (ㆁωㆁ)