A year had passed since the black SUVs had stolen the sun.
Without Ray to stand between her and the world, the orphanage had turned into a house of horrors. At six years old, Kiara's "angel eyes" were no longer bright; they were hollow, perpetually rimmed with the red sting of unshed tears.
The myth of the "Cursed Girl" was now the law of St. Jude's. Every broken pipe, every sour batch of milk, and every cold winter night was blamed on the girl who had been dropped at the gates with a warning.
"Don't let her shadow touch you," the older kids would snicker, tripping her in the mud. "She's a jinx. She'll suck the luck right out of your pockets."
But the workers were the ones who truly broke her.
"Wash faster, you lazy thing!" the kitchen matron, a woman with a face like curdled cream, barked.
Kiara stood on a rickety wooden crate, her arms aching as she scrubbed a mountain of greasy plates. Her stomach gave a sharp, hollow twist—she hadn't eaten since yesterday morning. Her fingers, pruned and white from the lye soap, slipped.
Crr-ack.
The porcelain plate hit the stone floor, shattering into a hundred jagged pieces.
Kiara froze. Her breath hitched. Slowly, her small, thin shoulders began to shake. She didn't wail; she couldn't afford to. Instead, she let out a tiny, trembling sob, her hands hovering over the mess as she tried to blink back the tears.
Swish—Snap!
The cane landed across her back, cutting through her thin dress. Kiara gasped, her knees buckling.
"There we go again!" the matron hissed, her face turning a panicked shade of red. "Now you want to spread your curse by crying? You want to bring the devil into my kitchen with those tears?"
"I-I'm sorry," Kiara whispered, her voice cracking as she tried to steady herself on the crate.
"Sorry doesn't fix a curse!" the woman screamed. She reached out and gave the wooden crate a violent shove.
Kiara tumbled to the floor, her palms landing right on the broken shards of the plate. She let out a cry of pain, but before she could even look at her bleeding hands, the woman grabbed her by the hair and began dragging her across the cold tiles.
"No! Please! Not the room!" Kiara begged, her small feet skidding on the ground.
But the matron was deaf to her mercy. She threw Kiara into the Cold Room—the tiny, windowless closet under the stairs where the air smelled of damp earth and spiders
Slam. The heavy iron bolt slid into place, plunging Kiara into a darkness so thick it felt like it was choking her.
"Please! Open it!" Kiara wailed, She crawled to the door, her tiny, blood-stained hands banging against the wood. Thump. Thump. Thump. "I'll be good! I promise! It's too dark! Ray! Ray, help me!"
Outside the door, the sound of footsteps approached. group older kids
"Listen to the jinx scream!" one laughed, kicking the door from the outside. "Keep banging, Kiara! Maybe the ghosts in there will bang back!"
"Stay in there forever!" another shouted, their laughter echoing down the hallway like a cruel song.
Inside, Kiara collapsed against the door, her tiny body shaking with a fear so deep it felt like it was freezing her bones. She tucked her head between her knees, her bleeding palms staining her dress."