Page 29 of Mourning Wings
RONNIE
ThemomentIstepped into the room; a strange feeling hit me.It’slikeI’vestayed here, maybe even slept in this bed.Ican’t explain it, but it’s familiar.Ican feel it in my soul, like a memory trying to resurface, just out of reach.
Isit on the edge of the bed, my fingers brushing over the soft sheets.Ashiver runs down my spine. “I’vebeen here before,”Imutter, more to myself than toValeria, but she catches it.
“Whatdo you mean?”Valeriaasks, waiting for me to explain somethingIdon’t even understand myself.
“Idon’t know.”Ishake my head, my hands gripping the edge of the mattress. “Itfeels likeI’vebeen in this room before, slept in this bed.Butthat doesn’t make any sense, does it?”Myvoice cracks at the end, frustration bubbling up.Nothingabout this should feel familiar, yet it does.
Valeriadoesn’t respond right away.Instead, she stretches out next to me, staring up at the ceiling.Shelifts her arms above her head, the long line of her body relaxed, andItry to focus, to shake the feeling creeping up my spine.Butthen,Isee it: a tattoo, small script along her ribcage, just under her shirt.
Morstua, vita mea.
Mybreath catches.Theworld tilts on its axis.
Thesentence burns into my memory from a timeIdidn’t even knowI’dforgotten.
Istare at it, my mouth suddenly dry.Myheart starts racing, pounding so loud,Ican hear it in my ears. “Val,”Isay, my voice barely a whisper, “when did you get that tattoo?”
Valeriaglances down at me, confused. “I’vehad it for years.Why?”
Ican’t speak, can’t move.Everysingle forgotten memory hits me at once, a rush of images, feelings—everything.Myvision blurs as the memories flood in, an unstoppable tidal wave.
Valeriasits up, her eyes wide now. “Verónica, what’s going on?Youlook like you’ve seen a ghost.Didyou hear something?”
Ican’t answer.I’mshaking, my hands trembling asIgrip the bed harder.Mythroat feels tight like it’s closing.Everythingstarts falling into place, andI’mterrified.
14
RONNIE
17 YEARS OLD
Theunfamiliar softness of the mattress beneath me is completely disorienting.Thesilky sheets tangle around my limbs asIblink in the morning light filtering through the sheer curtains.Fora moment,Ican’t remember whereIam.
Gloomwoodhad always been so different—everything cold and gray, the walls made of rough, unyielding stone, the constant sound of the sisters shuffling outside our doors.Therehad been the ever-present hum of the other girls’ chatter, muffled but never absent, but here, in theWhitmoremansion, there’s nothing but silence.Toomuch silence.Thestillness seeps into me, amplifying the lonelinessI’vecarried since arriving here months ago.Thisplace, no matter how beautiful, makes me feel hollow, likeI’mslowly fading into the background.
Isit up, rubbing my eyes, willing myself to shake off the remnants of sleep.Theorphanage had been harsh, but it had been full of life, noisy and chaotic.Thishouse, however, feels like a museum, grand but devoid of any warmth.It’sas ifI’mmerely a piece of art, meant to be seen but not touched, not understood.Ifeel like a ghost wandering through halls that don’t belong to me.
Anddespite their smiles and polite words, theWhitmoresdon’t see me either.Iknow they adopted me—like they adoptedTheodore,Maxwell, andJulian—for the sake of appearances.We’rejust part of the decor, another set of trophies they can show off when the moment suits them.Theboys seem fine with it.Maybethey’re used to being invisible.
I, on the other hand, can’t stop thinking aboutValeria.She’slike a wound that refuses to heal, an ever-present ache.Thelook on her face whenIleftGloomwoodbehind is etched in my mind, as if branded there.Theshock and hurt in her eyes, the betrayal whenIwas taken away...Ididn’t have a choice, but it doesn’t stop me from wishingIhad.Ileft her, and that guilt gnaws at me more than the quiet ever could.
Slidingout of bed,Ilet my feet sink into the plush carpet.Everythinghere is too perfect and delicate, but it only makes me feel more out of place.Ican’t help but sigh asIpull on a sweater.What’sthe point of all this luxury when it feels like a gilded cage?Evenmy adoptive brothers don’t care about me, andIdon’t care about them.I’venever been around boys before, soIavoid them as much as possible—except for the forced dinners or outings.Theylaugh, joke, and seem comfortable here, butIsee through it.Beneaththe surface, there’s something off.
Idrag myself downstairs for breakfast, already dreading the routine.Mr.Whitmoreis seated at the head of the long dining table, hidden behind his newspaper, whileMrs.Whitmoretalks quietly with the housekeeper.It’salways the same stifling politeness, formal and distant.
Theyglance up asIenter.
“Camila,”Mr.Whitmoresays without much interest, gazing over the rim of his glasses. “We’rehaving a party at the house this evening.I’msending you and your brothers away for thenight withMrs.Deering.She’lllook after you in the guest house.”
I’veonly seen the guest house from a distance while wandering the estate.It’ssmaller, tucked away, hidden among the trees.Once,Isaw the boys coming out of it.I’vealways wondered what goes on inside there, butI’venever been curious enough to investigate.Now,Isuppose,I’llfinally find out.
Inod and take my usual seat at the table.Breakfastlooks perfect as always—flawlessly arranged, the kind of meal you see in magazines—butIbarely touch it.Ican’t stop thinking aboutValeria.Withouther, everything feels so pointless.Shewas my anchor, my tether to the world, and now,I’mfloating aimlessly through life.
Afterour meal,Iretreat to my room, pulling out my sketchbook.Ilose myself in drawing likeIalways do, letting the familiar motion of my pencil on paper soothe me.Butterfliesfill the pages.Ican’t help it—they remind me of her.Weoften used to talk about them, how free they were, how weightless.Drawingthem makes me feel close to her, even though we’re worlds apart now.
Bythe time evening arrives,I’vesketched page after page of delicate wings and intricate patterns.Mrs.Deeringknocks on my door, reminding me it’s time to head to the guest house.Ipack my things and toss my sketchbook into my bag, and asIsling it over my shoulder,Idon’t notice my pencil slipping to the floor.