Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
On long nights alone, he’d climb out of his window, and sit on the small flat roof in front of it, wondering if there really was something else out there, unknown and mysterious. He’d long stopped believing in God, but since the orphanage was run by a priest and prided itself on adhering to Catholic values, he kept that fact to himself.
What Father John didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.
Despite already being late, Gabriel wouldn’t have left without tidying his bed. It was a habit that had been drilled into him in childhood, and he didn’t mind sticking to it as an adult.
His cozy nest consisted of a small room with an ensuite. He didn’t have much in terms of personal possessions, but he no longer had to share accommodation with anyone else, which, in his situation, was the best he could hope for.
It didn’t matter that Sister Beatrice called his miniature apartment a ‘mouse hole’, nor that the beige walls could use a fresh coat of paint. Like most of the windows in the building, his also was fitted with stained glass that filled the otherwise bland space with color in daytime. He used one wall to stick magazine clippings to—anything from beautiful places from around the world and semi-paranormal events from the area to recipes he wanted to try, and photos of foods far beyond his reach.
He was taken care of, served St. John’s with his labor, and didn’t have to pay rent nor face the outside world with all its bureaucracy and technology. So he made sure to keep his dated furniture clean, and his hopes for a different life—low.
While he hurried down the corridor, his gaze slid over a large portrait hung in a prominent space on the wall. A young woman with long dark hair sat in a wicker chair, smiling at a baby dozing off in a blanket in her lap. Behind her, the sunlit walls of the orphanage appeared like the very definition of safety and joy.
As the sole heir to her family’s fortune, Mrs. Benson funded St. John’s and to this day remained its main donor. It was thanks to her generosity that so many abandoned children had a place to call home instead of being thrown to the faceless system outside. And while Gabriel’s nightmares and false memories turned even her into a monster, he carefully redirected those thoughts, knowing how much gratitude he and his fellow orphans owed her.
It was unbearably sad that despite all the good she’d done, Mrs. Benson ended up losing her own child. Sometimes, life just wasn’t fair, and Gabriel knew a thing or two about that.
The morning air struck him as cold, so he put on a hoodie for the brief walk through the garden at the back of the orphanage. The building had been erected in the nineteenth century, and drafts seemed to always course through the numerous corridors, as if a crypt had opened somewhere underneath, sending freezing air to warn those still living. But after twenty-two years, the chill was as familiar to him as the scent of holy water in the chapel.
He exhaled a cloud of vapor as soon as he set his feet outside, but the garden was only a few moments’ walk away, so he stuffed his hands down his pockets and jogged toward the fields and orchards on the other side of the vast mansion of red brick. It was unusual to see anyone else outside this early, but his mouth stretched when he noticed a silhouette in a red beret scooting between patches of asparagus.
The older woman turned her head toward him, as if spooked, but then raised her hand in greeting and got to her feet, holding a bunch of cut stalks. The early morning sun made her brown skin shine and appear more youthful than it was. “It’s gonna be a beautiful day,” she said, pointing to the cloudless sky.
“I might end up spending most of it in the kitchen, but first I need to get some rhubarb for today’s dessert.”
He looked to the grand old-timey greenhouse standing not far away. It had an ornamental white skeleton, reminding everyone that the mansion and grounds had an upper-class pedigree. Mrs. Knight once expressed the view that the orphanage should honor its heritage by being renamed after Adam, Mrs. Benson’s son, who tragically died so young, but considering that Gabriel still lived at St. John’s, the idea hadn’t taken hold.
“Sounds fabulous!” Mrs. Knight said and put the asparagus into a woven basket she’d owned since Gabriel could remember. Back in the day, she always kept it on her desk, and when he had a bad day, she would reach into it and offer him a fruit. Or a piece of candy to make his young life slightly more bearable.