The morning bells of Halebourne Academy rang clear across the sprawling courtyard, stirring birds from dormer windows and pupils from slumber. Sunlight spilled like warm milk over the stone arches and crimson-tiled rooftops. The scent of honeysuckle, always heavy this time of year, lingered on the breeze as scholars filed into their daily routine.
Aurelius Rowan Calloway, in his charcoal wool coat and untamed curls, walked the halls with a kind of reluctant grace. A book was always tucked beneath his arm—today, it was an unfinished novella scrawled in his own hand. He rarely looked up, save to acknowledge the occasional greeting. And yet, on this particular morning, he could feel it: the weight of eyes, curious and constant.
The cafeteria hall, or what the students affectionately called The Gathering Room, brimmed with the familiar symphony of silverware and chatter. Long, darkwood tables gleamed under the lantern light, polished by decades of elbows, ink spills, and sugar-stained laughter.
"Aurelius!"
"You're finally back!"
"Is it true you were sick for months?"
He offered polite nods and soft smiles as classmates drifted toward him—some friends from younger days, others simply curious about the boy whose mother's name still hung in the air like the final note of a concert. It was like being a character in someone else's story, where the page had turned without his consent.
He took his seat near the center table, flanked by Elias and Philip, whose trays overflowed with buttered rolls, candied pears, and steaming stew.
"You're popular again," Elias teased, tossing an apple from hand to hand. "Mystery and recovery make for quite the legend."
"I'd prefer to vanish again," Aurelius muttered.
Philip chuckled. "And leave us without your brooding charm? Heaven forbid."
Yet as Aurelius stirred his tea absently, his eyes flicked toward the end of the hall. Scanning. Searching.
Where was she?
The girl with the firelit hair. That strange, fleeting figure from the stairwell. It was foolish to look, perhaps—but he couldn't help it. He watched every doorway, every shadow that passed too quickly to catch. But she was nowhere to be seen.
He told himself it didn't matter.
But it did.
Later that day, as classes melted into late afternoon and shadows stretched long across the cobblestones, Aurelius made his way toward the primary wing—a smaller, brighter building meant for the younger pupils. He came every second day to collect his sister, Delphine, whose days were filled with arithmetic, watercolors, and whimsical tales about toads in waistcoats.
As he waited beside the cherry tree by the gate, he heard the light laughter of children before he saw them.
And then—
There she was.
Not a ghost. Not a fleeting blur.
The girl.
She knelt by the garden bench, arms wrapped around a small child with cinnamon-brown hair—Delphine. The child's face was squished affectionately against the girl's shoulder, her delighted giggle echoing through the courtyard.
And the girl smiled.
It was not a grand smile, not one shaped for the eyes of others. It was quiet, real, and lit her freckled cheeks with something more than light.
Aurelius stepped forward.
The moment the red-haired girl noticed him, her posture shifted. She straightened abruptly, her smile faltering as she smoothed her skirt and stepped back.
Delphine, still beaming, waved him over. "Relius! This is Miss Desdemona! She reads me stories while I wait!"
Desdemona.
He blinked. "Desdemona?"
She gave a slight, awkward curtsy. "Just Des… most people don't bother with the whole thing."
He inclined his head, tone warm but hesitant. "A beautiful name, regardless. Greek, isn't it?"
She fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. "I… suppose. My mother named me after a tragic character."
"And yet, you seem anything but tragic."
Her cheeks bloomed crimson. "Well, that's kind of you."
Silence lingered between them, thick and gentle.
She looked away first.
"I didn't mean to intrude," he added, softer now. "Thank you—for being kind to Delphine. She doesn't warm to many."
Des glanced at the child, who had returned to picking flowers with complete contentment. "She's lovely. I… I like children. They don't expect too much of you."
Aurelius found himself smiling. "Neither do I."
Another pause. The kind that wasn't uncomfortable—but rather sacred. Unspoken.
And yet, before he could say more, Des gave a quick nod, muttered something about needing to go, and turned away with her ginger waves trailing like ribbons behind her.
He watched her vanish down the path.
And for the second time, he let her go
The next day at Halebourne began as ordinary as any other.
That is, until the shouting began.
It was just past the final bell. A crowd had gathered like a hive of smoke around the west lawn, where fights were rare but stories of them lasted seasons. Curious, Aurelius moved with the tide of students, his heart caught somewhere between dread and instinct.
And then he saw her.
Des.
She was cornered—shoulders drawn in, face tight with shame, and arms limp at her sides as laughter circled her like hounds. Opposite her stood a broad-shouldered boy with a sneer, waving a folded slip of parchment between two fingers.
It was hers.
Her private journal page.
He had snatched it from her satchel during the midday break, and now read aloud from it in a mocking voice, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"'He smiled at the moon as if she alone understood him…' Gods, what is this? Poetry? Or some ridiculous love letter to air?"
The crowd cackled.
"She writes to imaginary suitors, can you believe it? Maybe she thinks they'll write back."
More laughter.
"She's touched in the head. Probably thinks the characters talk to her."
Desdemona stood frozen, her throat thick with shame. Her fingers trembled at her sides. The boy waved the page again.
"No wonder she's always alone. Reading all those romantic tales and thinking someone might love her too."
Des didn't speak.
She just stood there.
And that was what broke him.
Aurelius stepped forward before he could think. The boy looked up—too late.
The punch landed with the satisfying clarity of justice.
The crowd gasped.
The boy fell back, stumbling into the grass, hand cradling his cheek.
Des stood frozen, lips parted but no sound emerging.
Aurelius did not say a word. He simply picked up the little book—its spine now creased, its cover smudged with soil—and held it out to her with both hands.
She reached for it slowly, her fingers brushing his with the lightness of silk, and closed around it as if it were something fragile… or sacred.
But she didn't meet his gaze.
She turned—
—and ran.
That night, the sky wept over Halebourne in soft, apologetic rain. Aurelius sat by his window, writing with quiet fury. He didn't know what to say, only that silence had never felt so loud. Des was burning, and no one had seen it but him. He whispered her name once, to the rafters of his quiet chamber, as if tasting it might steady the ache that had begun to bloom beneath his ribs.
That afternoon, he'd slipped into the library, tucked another chapter behind the velvet drape, and paused—just briefly—to read the messages left behind.
One had waited at the bottom, penned in a hand he now knew by heart.
"Do you think a story can make you feel seen? Even if no one else ever looks at you? – WildOrchid"
He hadn't replied. He hadn't known how to.
Now, hours later, the candle on his desk had melted to a trembling nub, casting the room in gold and shadow.
He stared at the half-written parchment before him, ink stilled mid-line, her question still echoing.
Even if no one else ever looks at you…
He thought of her face—blushing, quiet, soft around the eyes when she smiled. He thought of how she held her books to her chest like they might guard her from the world.
And he wondered, for the first time, if he had written his stories to be seen—or to see someone else.
Someone like her.