The Isolated Child

Chapter One

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I’ve learned that silence is the loudest sound in a house like this.

The kind of silence that sticks to marble floors and presses against the windows. It doesn’t echo—it *haunts*. My footsteps are the only thing breaking it tonight, but even they don’t seem real. Just another ghost wandering through my father’s mansion.

He doesn’t see me anymore. Not since the divorce.

Not since he traded me for a new family—a shiny one with matching smiles and perfect hair. I used to be his “little princess.” Now? I’m just the inconvenient daughter who reminds him of a past he’d rather forget.

I close the door to my room behind me and sink onto the edge of the bed. The sheets smell faintly of lavender, which was my mother’s favorite. She had them imported from France once, before she left. Before everything fell apart.

My phone buzzes beside me.

Another message from Dad’s assistant. Another reminder that I’m not needed in this house anymore.

"Your enrollment at Blackmoor Academy has been finalized. You’ll be leaving next weekend.”

That’s all. No apology. No goodbye. Just a cold confirmation that I’m being shipped off again.

Again.

I throw the phone across the room. It hits the wall hard—too hard—and cracks split down the screen. But that’s not what makes my breath catch.

It wasn’t just the impact.

The lamp on my nightstand shun when I threw it.

Like something else reacted. Something inside me.

I press my hands into my knees and breathe deep. "Calm down. Don’t let it happen again."

But the air feels charged now. Heavy. Like it always does right before something happens. Right before—

A flash of light.

No, not light. A pulse.

From me.

I gasp as the energy froze around my fingertips, invisible but hot, humming with something I can’t name. Then it vanishes. Just like that.

I stare at my hands.

This isn’t normal.

It hasn’t been normal for a while.

Last week, during finals, I stared at a test I hadn’t studied for long enough, and the answers appeared on the page. This morning, I looked at the security camera outside my window and it turned itself toward the sky. And yesterday—yesterday I screamed in frustration so loudly that every glass in the kitchen shattered.

They called it an accident. A fluke.

But I know better.

I’m not crazy. I’m not.

I just… don’t understand what I am.

And no one believes me.

Not my therapist, not the school, not even the guy who kissed me last month and then claimed I “wasn’t worth the weirdness.”

I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. I don’t cry. I haven’t cried in weeks. Tears feel pointless now. Useless.

Instead, I think about Blackmoor Academy.

I’ve heard rumors. Rich kids talk. Especially the ones who got kicked out of other schools. Some say it’s a place for problem children. Others whisper darker things. That it’s not just a school.

That it’s *something else.*

Something old. Something hidden.

I should be scared. I should be dreading whatever’s waiting for me tomorrow.

But I’m not.

Because here, in this house where I don’t belong, there’s nothing left for me.

Only silence.

And shadows.

And the feeling that I’m running out of time.

The next morning, I pulled my backpack higher on my shoulder, the weight of last night’s argument still pressing against my ribs. "You’re becoming a problem, Aria."His words, cold and clinical, like I was another failing investment.

The car door slammed shut behind me, and the limo rolled away without a pause. I didn’t turn to watch it go.

St. Magdalene’s Academy loomed ahead, all marble columns and gilded gates, a monument to wealth and prestige. My third school in two years. Not that it mattered—no amount of tuition could fix whatever was "wrong" with me.

The whispers started before I even reached the courtyard.

"That’s her. The Abnormal girl."

"I heard she destroys things when she's angry."

"No, not true."

I kept my head down, fists tight. Lies. All of it. But the truth wasn’t any better.

Because I didn’t know "what" to think of.

One minute, I’d been arguing with my stepmother in the penthouse—her perfect lips curled in hatred, her perfectly manicured finger pointing toward my room like I was a dog to be dismissed—and the next, every mirror in the apartment had *shattered*.

No wind. No earthquake. Just me, screaming, and then—glass raining down like knives.

No one believed me, of course.

I passed through the school doors, the scent of lemon polish and old money thick in the air. My phone buzzed—another ignored text from my father’s assistant. "Meeting. Can’t make it to parent-teacher night."

I swiped it away.

Class blurred in a haze of half-hearted notes and sideways glances. Then, in the third period, it happened again.

Mr. Hargrove droned on about "Macbeth," his voice like sandpaper. My chest tightened, the air suddenly became too thick. The girl beside me—Lila—leaned over, her perfume cloying.

"Must be nice," she whispered, "having daddy buy your way out of everything."

Something inside me twisted.

The lights flickered. Once. Twice.

Lila shouted as her textbook burst into flames.

Chaos started. Students shifted back, screaming. Mr. Hargrove reached out for the fire extinguisher.

And I sat there, frozen, as the flames died as soon as they’d appeared—leaving the book untouched. Not a single page burned.

But Lila’s eyes locked onto mine, wide with terror.

"What are you?"

The headmaster’s office smelled like leather and disappointment.

"This is the third incident, Miss Blackwell."

I didn’t bother defending myself. What was the point?

"Your father has been notified again."

I almost laughed. Notified, yes. Concerned? Never.

The dismissal letter was already signed when I got to the headmaster's office.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror—dark circles under my eyes, a face too pale, too sharp. The girl no one wanted.

Then the glass moved.

I stumbled back as my reflection "smiled"at me—a grin too wide, too knowing.

"You don’t belong here, little storm."

My breath caught. The room spun.

And in the walk-way light, my eyes glowed—violet, just for a second.

Then the mirror cracked.

I was alone again.

But not for long.

I swallow hard and walk forward.

The path curves ahead, lined with statues of figures cloaked in shadow. Their faces are worn smooth by time, but I swear one of them turns its head as I pass.

I fastened my steps.

The main building stands at the end of the courtyard. Tall spires stretch into the sky, and stained-glass windows shimmer despite the overcast day.