Burned (Kept Series #1)

Eira Hale

The first thing I noticed was the fountain, a centerpiece of carved marble figures frozen in a tableau of grace and struggle, its water arcing upwards to catch the autumn sunlight in a dazzling display.

Around me, students moved with an easy familiarity, their presence a stark contrast to my own stunned stillness.

Lakehead Academy felt less like a school and more like a forgotten memory I had stumbled upon.

The ancient stone walls, softened by creeping vines, and the cathedral-like doorways all added to the surreal atmosphere, making me feel like a quiet observer, a stranger pressing her feet onto unfamiliar ground, a person outside of the laughter and conversations swirling around me in the courtyard.

My backpack felt heavy, the handle of my suitcase digging into my palm as I stood there, watching, trying to simply breathe in the atmosphere.

I imagined being someone else, someone more confident, someone who belonged, who could toss their hair or wave to friends, but that wasn’t me.

I was just Eira, quiet and careful, the kind of person easily overlooked, the one who never broke things because she never dared to touch what truly mattered.

The urge to remain a silent spectator was strong, but I knew I had to move, to enter this place that felt both impossibly real and utterly alien.

With a forced sense of purpose, I located the admissions office, its heavy oak door and subtle lemon polish scent a comforting anchor in the overwhelming grandeur.

The woman inside, with her clipped British accent and brief, almost dismissive glance, handed me my welcome packet, and I was strangely relieved by her lack of detailed attention.

I signed where I was told, offered the expected smile, and nodded when spoken to, a quiet performance of fitting in, of beginning the process of becoming a part of this place that still felt so overwhelmingly grand and distant.

When I stepped outside again, the air felt too crisp, too clean, a stark contrast to the thick, heavy atmosphere I had just left behind.

It was the kind of air that promised new beginnings, but to me, it felt sterile and unwelcoming.

As if it was trying to scour away a part of me I couldn’t afford to lose.

I studied the map mechanically as I walked, my fingers tracing paths over the laminated paper that my eyes didn’t really see.

The lines and building names blurred into a meaningless jumble.

All I could focus on was the single, concrete destination that had been drilled into my mind: Dormitory building, East Wing, Room 116.

Each step toward it felt both impossibly heavy and terrifyingly light, as if I were a ghost drifting toward a place I didn’t yet belong.

The hallways smelled faintly of lavender and laundry detergent.

A scent that was meant to be comforting but only amplified my sense of dislocation.

Girls’ voices echoed from behind closed doors, bursts of laughter, whispered gossip, a high and bright melody that sounded like belonging.

I found myself pausing, listening to the casual joy in their conversations, and wondered if I would ever sound like that again.

My own room, when I finally found it, was small but tidy, with a single bed pushed up against a large window and a wooden desk that looked freshly polished.

My roommate hadn’t arrived yet, leaving space in a state of suspended animation.

I set down my worn suitcase in the middle of the floor and just stood there, a stranger in my own life, completely unsure of what to do with myself now that I was finally here.

I was supposed to feel excited.

Hopeful.

Reborn.

That’s what everyone had said this new chapter would be.

Instead, I felt like a shadow had followed me all the way from home.

A cold, persistent presence I couldn’t outrun, no matter how many new buildings I walked into.

I began to unpack slowly, neatly, carefully.

Hang clothes. Fold sweaters.

Align books on the empty shelf.

Order restoring sanity.

After my suitcase was empty and half of the room looked like a page from a catalog, I showered, letting the hot water run for too long, hoping the steam and noise could drown out the thoughts that refused to quiet down.

When I came out, the room was still empty and silent.

I sat at the desk and stared out the window, the glass cool under my fingertips, the world outside moving without me.

Below, girls crossed the courtyard laughing, their voices rising like music, effortless, unburdened.

Their confidence seemed woven into their bones, something passed through generations, as natural as breathing.

I watched them, their easy joy, their unshaken certainty that they belonged right where they stood.

My chest tightened, the ache deepening with each careless step they took, each unguarded smile.

I don’t belong here.

Not because of money, my father made sure I never wanted anything, stuffing my bank account full to make up for all the words he couldn’t say after my mother was gone.

But belonging wasn’t about wealth.

It wasn’t about the clothes I wore or the things I owned.

It was about the quiet understanding that came when someone truly saw you, when they looked past the surface and recognized the person beneath.

And no one here, maybe no one anywhere, had ever really seen me.

The laughter outside faded as the girls disappeared around a corner, leaving the courtyard empty again.

I turned back to my desk, the silence pressing in like a weight.

Maybe belonging was something you had to carve out for yourself, piece by piece.

Or maybe it was something you never found at all.

I picked up my pen, staring at the blank page in front of me, and wondered if the words I left behind would be the only proof I was ever here.

I reached for my phone without thinking, my fingers already opening the contact labeled Dad. It rang once before he answered. His voice was warm, familiar, and grounding.

“Pumpkin. You settled in?”

I swallowed. “Yeah. The school is… beautiful.” I tried to laugh, light, and effortlessly. “Really beautiful.”

He hesitated, the silence between us full of things neither of us ever said aloud. “Good. I want you to like it there.”

“I will,” I said. “I do.”

Another pause.

I could almost picture him rubbing his jaw, searching for words.

“I have something to tell you," he said finally, voice soft.

My body tensed without my permission.

“Oh?”

“I’m getting remarried.”

There it was.

The words landed gently, he’d softened his tone intentionally, but they still hit hard.

I stared straight ahead, vision blurring at the edges.

“That’s… that’s good,” I said.

Too quickly. Too bright. “I’m happy for you.”

He exhaled and was relieved. “I wanted to wait to tell you in person, but...”

“No,” I interrupted. “I’m glad you told me now.”

I forced a small laugh. “You deserve to be happy, Dad. You’ve been alone for so long.”

Six years.

Six years since the hospital room, the white walls, the too-quiet machines.

Six years of silence in the house that once held laughter.

He had loved my mother in a way I had never seen two people love.

The kind that made other people believe in something divine.

The kind that makes you fear what love can do when it ends.

I blinked hard. “Really. I’m glad.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” His voice cracked the tiniest bit.

“She has a nephew living with her for now. He’ll be finishing school this year. You two will probably cross paths when you come home for breaks.”

A nephew.

I pictured someone soft.

Ordinary. Harmless.

“Okay,” I said. “That sounds fine.”

We talked for a few minutes more... schedules, campus rules, mundane details.

I made sure every word I spoke was gentle, supportive, and proud.

And he believed it, because I had spent my whole life learning to be undemanding.

To want nothing meant never breaking anything.

Including him.

When we hung up, the silence in the room felt enormous.

I placed the phone down very carefully.

Sat very still.

And then I broke.

Quietly.

The kind of crying that has no sound, just breath shaking, hands pressed to my mouth, body trying to contain grief that has nowhere to go.

I wished my mother had lived long enough to see me grow into someone I could recognize.

Someone who didn’t just survive things.

Someone who didn’t feel like smoke where a person should be.

I wiped my face before the tears had fully fallen.

A practiced, covert motion to erase the evidence of a fracture I couldn’t afford.

Not here.

Not where the unfamiliar eyes of strangers could witness my unraveling.

In this sea of anonymity, my past was a ghost, and that void was my only chance.

A terrifying, fragile hope that if I were quiet, careful, and perfect, they might finally see a person who mattered.