Alice loathed the idea of being dragged to some godforsaken place hidden deep in the woods, but the prospect of the orphanage seemed worse, so she bit her tongue. Maybe this time, if they took the car again, a tire would blow and end all her problems... But the girl’s bad luck didn’t act up this time, and the journey passed without incident. Her aunt hadn’t spoken a word. Ever since the funeral, she’d returned to chain-smoking, clogging the car with acrid stench. Children’s minds adapt quickly, though. Within minutes, her imaginary sewer adventure morphed into a burning temple, where a disinherited princess fought through flames to escape...

  Then the made-up world dissolved, replaced by something tangible yet impossible. The line between worlds had frayed, and a voice slithered up from her gut: Something is very wrong here. Against her will, her head swiveled from the window toward her aunt, just in time to see the woman light another cigarette. Through the windshield loomed an old gate, rusted and groaning, flanked by hundreds of leather suitcases emblazoned with six-pointed stars. No doubt remained: each held something precious, each was hers. They’d waited decades. For her. He waited, too…

  Then came blackness.

  Alice jerked back, the vision had already shattered, and was gone. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Desperate, she scoured her aunt’s face for solace only to find the glow of another cigarette. The same old gate stood before them now — dilapidated, yawning open. A strange voice whispered in her mind: suitcases. They’re buried out back. He wasn’t foolish enough to leave them out in the open.

  Poor little Alice,

  torn from Wonderland,

  hauled into the nightmare’s hand,

  offered up to feed the mad.

  A sugary voice wormed through her head, a nursery rhyme rotted through. No matter how hard she tried to focus on something else, that sweet, childlike voice kept playing on a loop. She hated it. Every second of it. That voice kept her from escaping to her better world — the one where she wasn’t just a helpless child. It made her angry. Everything made her angry.The fact that she couldn’t escape. That she was being dragged to a house she hadn’t even known existed a few days ago. That nothing happened the way it did in the movies. That no one in her family wanted her. That her aunt couldn’t even bring herself to like her. That she’d probably end up in foster care soon. That her parents had just… left her…

  Tears? She hadn’t even noticed when they started falling. One after another, they slid down her cheeks, though they had no right to be there. She didn’t want them. She swiped them away quickly with the sleeve of her autumn coat and glanced at her aunt. What she saw... she didn’t like that either. Her aunt was crying too. Alice was flooded by a feeling she didn’t even have a name for. A nine-year-old doesn’t know the word “fury”. She wanted to cry, to kick, to bite, to scream — to do a thousand things at once. Part of her felt that, as an orphan, she alone deserved the full weight of the grief. Another part saw an adult in tears and felt utterly lost. A thousand questions with no answers. Unjust accusations, hurled at the world. She was alone.Utterly alone in a war she couldn’t even comprehend. She had to do something. She had to...

  The world froze.

  Total darkness swallowed her. She felt like she’d been pulled into a black hole, and yet she knew exactly where she was. Inside her own mind. She looked around, helpless. Terrified.

  “These aren’t your feelings,” said a much younger Alice, maybe three or four years old, stepping out of the void. “They belong to someone else. Someone else’s fear. Someone else’s rage.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The older Alice leaned down toward the younger version of herself, studying her face.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m you. I’m a part of you. But we don’t have time to explain. We have to disconnect from these feelings, or we’ll lose our mind. I just came to warn you. It’s not going to be easy. But it’s important. Pretend everything’s fine. Your aunt can’t know.”

  Alice opened her eyes. She was back in the car. In the distance stood the building that was supposed to be her new home. She wouldn’t have called it a house. It looked like a manor.Or maybe a small palace. Something out of an old movie. Huge. Gray. Ancient. Unwelcoming…

  Pain!It struck all at once, swallowing her whole. Her bones, her muscles, even her hair ached like never before. She wanted to scream, to cry, to beg for it to stop. Instead, she dug her nails into her palms and focused on that pain. That’s what they did in the movies. But once again, movies had lied. It didn’t help. It made things worse. A sudden, insane thought crossed her mind: she slid her tongue between her teeth and promised herself that if the pain became unbearable, she’d bite the tip off. Somehow, that threat scared her into silence. She sat there, rigid, drenched in cold sweat, silent until the car finally stopped in front of the house. The moment her aunt turned off the engine, the pain vanished—just like that. Miraculously. But it left something behind. A horrible, creeping disgust. Like the feeling she’d had when they removed her first tick. Relief… tainted by revulsion.

  “Sweetheart, are you okay?” her aunt asked, eyeing her closely.“You’re pale as a sheet. Do you have a fever?”

  “No, Auntie.”

  The word clung to her throat. Why was she so weak? She felt like a balloon with all the air let out.

  “Maybe we should go back. We can come another day.”

  “No, Auntie, I’ll be fine. It’s probably just the smell… I think it made me a little nauseous.”

  Her aunt looked at her suspiciously—then something clicked. Her expression softened.

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry, Alice. I got lost in thought and almost smoked you out.Come on, step outside, get some fresh air.”

  Before the words had even sunk in, Alice was already outside. Her knees were weak.Her stomach twisted in knots. It was bad. And some awful voice inside her whispered:It will get worse.

  Her aunt stared at the old manor with uncertainty. It wasn’t exactly a ruin, but calling it well-kept would’ve been a stretch. The two-story building, a relic from another era. Chunks of plaster flaked off the walls, and the front door... was opening on its own. It wasn’t exactly a comforting sight — not for two hearts already burdened with grief. Her aunt’s eyes widened. Only the iron will she’d forged over a lifetime of ignoring the unexplained kept her fear from showing. But Alice saw it anyway. She saw exactly what had shaken her. This wasn’t just about a creaking hinge. It was the air. The silence. The sense of wrongness. They were far from the nearest village, deep on the edge of a forest, where the quiet was so absolute it ached.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “In the forest… it’s never this quiet,” Alice whispered, edging closer to her aunt.

  Everything moved as if in a slow-motion scene from a film. Just as she unconsciously reached for her guardian’s hand, a figure appeared stepping out from behind the door, draped in shadow, watching them. When it moved, it did so slowly, calmly. As if it knew they wouldn’t get far, even if they tried to run. Two hearts froze. A scream gathered in Alice’s throat, but it died just as quickly. The figure stepped into the light. A small, elderly woman with silver hair and rosy cheeks descended the steps, gripping the railing tightly.

  “Good day, darlings,” she said, smiling warmly. “How can I help you?”

  Alice stood frozen. She didn’t know what to think. Her aunt seemed just as stunned by the sudden shift from terror to grandmotherly kindness but managed to close her gaping mouth and let out a soft cough.

  “Are you alright?” the old woman asked, frowning slightly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Um, no, I… I’m sorry, I…”

  Her guardian fumbled, struggling to form a single sentence. Alice didn’t even try. She shut down the part of her mind that overanalyzed everything and let her curiosity take over.

  “Who are you?” she asked softly.

  “Sorry, little bird?” the woman said, leaning closer with a smile. “My hearing’s still decent, but not perfect. You’ll have to speak up a bit.”

  “Who are you?” This time, Alice asked louder, maybe a bit too loud, even for herself. Her throat was tight; speaking felt like lifting weights.

  “I live here, child. My husband and I look after the house. We’re old, but we do what we can to keep things in order. And besides—”

  “Excuse me, may I ask something?” Her aunt’s voice finally broke through. Now that the danger had begun to fade, the questions came flooding in.

  “Ask? Of course, dear. I’ll try to help.”

  “Are you the owner of this house?”

  The old woman paused. Her smile faltered for just a moment.

  “Ah. So that’s what this is about.”

  She stepped aside and gestured, inviting them into the house.

  “Come in, please. I’ll make some tea and explain everything.”

  Inside, the air carried the scent of old things—aged wood, faint vanilla, and something indefinably nostalgic. Alice nibbled on a cookie and sipped strong tea, her eyes wandering the room with quiet curiosity. The space was surprisingly vast, with ceilings so high they arched above her like cathedral vaults. The furniture belonged in a museum, yet somehow felt cozy, almost familiar.

  The old woman who’d welcomed them was the grandmother Alice had always imagined. She even baked perfect cookies—thick with melted chocolate chunks. Sunlight streamed through the windows, glowing in that soft orange hue Alice adored. It felt like a half-remembered dream: a warm countryside home, the kind her classmates had described with wistful smiles.

  “So, you’re saying my brother got this house from you?”

  Her aunt’s voice sliced through Alice’s daze, distant and muffled, as if spoken underwater.

  “Yes,” the old woman replied gently. “We met your brother and his lovely wife last year. They volunteered at the senior center… Oh, when was it? Summer, perhaps? Our son had brought us down from the city for a visit. I remember—such a golden day.” She gestured to the plate. “Do try another cookie, dear.”

  “He offered to drive us back,” she continued, her voice meandering like a lazy river. “Our son was in a hurry. That’s how we met. Such kind souls. Such light in them.”

  “My brother never mentioned you.” The aunt’s tone sharpened, deliberate as a knife.

  “Really?” The old woman blinked. “He spoke often of his little girl. Showed me a photo from his wallet—a tiny thing on a blanket. An unusual color, so vivid…”

  “…Emerald,” the aunt whispered, staring into her teacup. She knew that photo. She carried its twin, tucked deep in her own wallet. Her brother had given it to her when Alice turned one. He’d never gone anywhere without it.

  "Such a precious child," the old woman murmured, her knotted fingers tracing the rim of her teacup. "Rosy cheeks, bright eyes. I scarcely recognized her today—she's grown so much. Her mother's face, but those eyes... pure her father. Ah, what a cruel twist of fate..."

  "Why did you give my brother the house?" The aunt's question hung in the air like frost on glass, her tone now stripped of its earlier warmth.

  The old woman's sigh seemed to carry the weight of decades.

  "Oh, our son didn't want it. I've lived here all my life—my husband and I raised our boy within these very walls." Her gaze drifted to the sunlight pooling on the worn floorboards. "How could I simply let it go? This house has cradled our family for generations."

  A brittle laugh escaped her. "It broke my heart when our son refused it. City lights dazzle him more than moonlit fields, you see. So we thought... your brother had a child. Perhaps he might find the same joy here that we once knew." Her fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted her shawl. "Better our home breathe with new life than wither empty or fall to strangers. At least this way, its soul remains."

  "And your son didn't protest?"

  "Not a whisper of objection." The old woman's voice grew distant. "He didn't care one whit. And truth be told—" Her words dissolved into the creak of the house settling.

  Alice felt exhaustion pull at her like an insistent tide. Her eyelids grew leaden; the final crumbs of her cookie tasted of childhood as the last sip of tea left a honeyed warmth on her tongue. Her head lolled forward, dark lashes fluttering against pale cheeks.

  Fragments of conversation reached her through thickening fog:

  "...documents...""...never told her?"

  "...meant to protect..."

  Somewhere, a music box tinkled its forgotten melody.

  She was so very tired.

  The past days had been a waking nightmare—each moment laced with a grief that clawed at her throat. But here... here the world softened at its edges. Time pooled like spilled syrup. Pain couldn't penetrate the golden light filtering through lace curtains, couldn't compete with the alchemy of chocolate and bergamot and worn leather. Tears slipped silently down Alice's sleeping face as memories surfaced—her father's laugh echoing down a hallway, her mother's hands braiding her hair. Ordinary moments she'd once taken for granted now glittered like salvaged jewels in the dark. And for the first time since the accident, she dreamed not of loss, but of love preserved in amber.

  The aunt gazed at the sleeping girl, her lips trembling into a sad smile. With one careful finger, she brushed away a tear clinging to Alice’s cheek—only to feel warmth envelop her own hand. The old woman’s gnarled fingers closed around hers, squeezing with that perfect, grandmotherly pressure she hadn’t felt since childhood.

  And just like that, the dam broke.

  Sobs wracked her body as decades of composure dissolved. In this creaking house smelling of beeswax and lavender, she wasn’t the stalwart guardian anymore, not the last pillar of a shattered family. She was simply a child again, small and lost and allowed to be. The relief of it left her dizzy.

  "I don’t know what happens now," she whispered through tears that felt endless.

  The old woman’s thumb stroked her knuckles.

  "You’ll forget, my dear. You’ll wake tomorrow thinking only of your train ticket home. You’ll drink terrible station coffee and complain about the weather—and it will all feel wonderfully ordinary."

  "But Alice—" The protest emerged thin as smoke, her grip on reality already slipping.

  "The child stays." No malice, only certainty. "This was decided long before you arrived. When He chooses, we don’t question. We yield."

  "Who—?"

  "Shhh." A cool palm cradled her cheek. "The car’s waiting."

  Somewhere deep inside, a voice shrieked—this was wrong, she couldn’t abandon Alice, not like this—but the thought dissolved like sugar in tea. That comforting pressure returned, feather-light against her mind:

  …Alice was safe now…

  …the adoption papers were signed…

  …Australia was so very far away.

  Each rationalization settled over her like snowfall, burying doubts beneath its quiet weight. Of course this was better. Those kind professors would give Alice libraries and music lessons, far more than a grieving aunt ever could. Hadn’t she herself insisted it was the right choice?

  At the gate, the old woman pressed a handkerchief into her hand. "She’ll bloom here," came the whisper. "Just as her father wanted."

  And with those words, the last knot of resistance unraveled. The aunt inhaled—expecting guilt, grief—but found only relief. As the car pulled away, she caught one last glimpse of the manor through the rear window, its windows glowing like amber in the setting sun.

  She never looked back.