The Willowridge Orphanage sat like a forgotten relic atop the hill overlooking the quiet, nameless town below. Its crumbling walls, streaked with mildew and age, seemed to bow under the weight of unspoken stories. The building had stood there for decades, maybe longer, but no one in the town could remember exactly when it was built or by whom. Its presence was simply accepted, like the rising and setting of the sun, though it cast a shadow far darker than any celestial body.134Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0HVbfczoLc
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The children who lived within its sagging walls were just as forgotten as the building itself. They were the ones left behind, the ones no one came for. Each child had arrived with a story, though their tales were often too painful to tell. And so, they simply existed, day after day, under the watchful eye of Miss Grayson, the head caretaker.
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Miss Grayson was an enigma. To the townsfolk, she was a saint. She often made trips into town, her polished shoes clicking against cobblestone streets as she distributed warm smiles and baskets of baked goods. "For the children," she'd say, her voice sweet and motherly. But to the orphans, she was someone else entirely. Behind the closed doors of Willowridge, her smile turned to a sneer, her hands quick to discipline, her words sharp enough to cut.
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Elias had lived at the orphanage for as long as he could remember. He had no memories of his parents or a life before the hill. All he knew was the cold, drafty room he shared with three other boys, the long wooden table where meals were served with military precision, and the garden—a tangled, forbidden patch of earth that seemed to hold secrets no one dared uncover. Elias was a quiet boy, small for his age, with dark hair that always seemed to fall into his eyes. The other children whispered about him, calling him strange, though they never said it to his face.
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Elias was strange, though not in the way the other children thought. While they played games or whispered stories late at night, Elias would sit alone, listening. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to join in; he simply found the world around him far more interesting. While the other children saw only cracked walls and broken furniture, Elias saw something more. The walls spoke to him, their voices low and mournful. The furniture groaned with stories of the past, each creak and crack a word in a language only Elias could understand. Even the wind, howling through the broken windows, seemed to carry messages meant just for him.
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It had started when he was very young. At first, he thought everyone could hear the whispers, the voices that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once. But as he grew older, he realized he was alone in this. The other children laughed when he spoke of the things the walls had said or the secrets the floorboards had shared. Even Miss Grayson, cruel as she was, seemed unnerved by his claims. "Enough of your nonsense, boy," she’d snap, her eyes narrowing. "Talking to walls. What kind of foolishness is that?"
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Elias learned to keep his gift—or curse—to himself. But the voices never stopped. If anything, they grew louder as time went on. And none were louder than the whispers from the garden.
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The garden was a strange place, even by Willowridge standards. It sat behind the orphanage, tucked away behind a rusted iron gate that was always locked. The children were forbidden to go near it, though none of them seemed particularly interested in doing so. Overgrown with weeds and brambles, the garden looked more like a patch of wilderness than a place where anything might grow. But Elias felt drawn to it as if the very soil beneath it were calling his name.
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On a gray, overcast afternoon, Elias found himself standing at the edge of the garden gate. The other children were inside, huddled around the fire Miss Grayson had begrudgingly lit to stave off the autumn chill. But Elias had slipped away, unable to ignore the pull of the garden any longer. He stood there, his small hands gripping the cold iron bars of the gate, staring into the tangled mess of vines and thorns.
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"Why do you look so sad?" a voice whispered.
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Elias froze. The voice was soft, almost kind, but there was something about it that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He looked around, but there was no one there. The other children were inside, and Miss Grayson was nowhere to be seen.
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"Down here," the voice said.
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Elias’s gaze dropped to the ground. At first, he saw nothing but dirt and weeds. But then he noticed a small stone, half-buried in the soil. It was smooth and round, its surface glinting faintly in the dim light.
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"You’re not like the others," the stone said. "You can hear me."
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Elias knelt down, his heart pounding in his chest. He had spoken to furniture before, even the wind, but never a stone. "Who are you?" he whispered.
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"I’m just a friend," the stone replied. "Someone who understands what it’s like to be alone."
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Elias hesitated. He had heard voices before, but this one was different. It wasn’t just a faint whisper or a fleeting murmur. It was clear, direct, and strangely comforting.
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"The garden," the stone continued, "is a special place. It’s where secrets grow, where dreams take root. But it’s trapped, just like you."
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"Trapped?" Elias asked, his brow furrowing.
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The stone didn’t answer right away. When it did, its voice was softer, almost mournful. "There are things in this world that don’t belong, things that are forgotten. The garden is one of them. But you can help. You can set it free."
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Elias didn’t understand what the stone meant, but he felt a strange sense of purpose rising within him. For the first time, the whispers didn’t feel like a burden. They felt like a gift.
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From that day on, Elias visited the garden whenever he could. He spoke to the stone, and in return, it told him stories—stories of a world beyond the orphanage, a world where he could be free. The stone became his confidant, his only friend. But as the days turned to weeks, the stone’s whispers grew darker, its promises more insistent.
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And Elias, desperate for a life beyond the orphanage, listened.
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To be continued...
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