Shadow's of Tomorrow

OK so before I start I'd like to give a huge thank so everyone and everyone who reads this, I wrote this book a while back when I was still finding out who I am and the type of romance I need, so please it you like do not hesitate to give me a like, a follow and comments and please do continue to read.
Unfortunately publish it until I have like 200 words so here's a little more information about me, I write books, I'm also a ghost writer so tell me if you need things done, I put my emotions into my book also therefore I don't sugar coat. I'm just trying to get my books well known so I get it published Its been a big childhood dream of mine and I won't stop till it happens.
Like I said earlier do not hesitate to like, share, comment most important so I can learn from my mistakes and follow. And ask questions as well cause I'm writing whatever comes to mind, so somethings might be mixed up, please do point it out to me.
There are somethings I wish to address such as my pen name actually being Ar12_2, so some of my book covers will have that name.
Without further ado let's do this

Please enjoy


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I could smell the garlic as my mother hummed in the kitchen, stirring the pot with slow, careful movements. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting warm shadows on the walls, and the little home we had felt cozy despite its simple nature. I sat on the small wooden stool by the door, sketching with the charcoal I'd stolen from my father's workshop earlier. He never minded. He always encouraged my drawings, calling them "visions of tomorrow."

It was a ritual-my father working hard in the yard, repairing tools or carving wood, while I drew, my mother humming as she worked. My parents might not have been wealthy, but they worked with everything they had to create a life for us. I watched them, learning from their steadiness, from their silent hope that even with everything stacked against them, life would go on.

I wasn't blind to our struggles. The ragged clothes, the meager meals, the dust that settled on everything because we couldn't afford to sweep as often as I wished. I knew we were poor. But I didn't feel it. Not as long as we had each other.

Mother's face was a picture of contentment as she leaned over, brushing my hair away from my face with a soft laugh.

"You're always drawing, Iris," she said, voice lilting with affection. "Do you ever dream of something more than this?"

I smiled up at her, not fully understanding her question. "I dream of the sky."

She blinked in surprise, brushing a little dirt from my cheek. "The sky?"

I nodded. "When I close my eyes, I picture it. So big, and full of stars." It felt silly now, but those stars felt like a dream in themselves-bright spots in a dark world.

"Your father says that no matter how small we are, as long as we hold our heads high, no one can stop us from reaching those stars," she said, bending down to place a gentle kiss on my forehead. Her lips were warm, full of love.

But as I looked out the small, grimy window at the dusky sky, I wasn't sure if the stars were real or just a story. Was there more out there? Was there a bigger life waiting for me, or was this it?

The days came and went. I learned quickly, as children do, to hold my head high. Not that anyone had told me to do so-but because I knew that no matter how hungry we were, how few luxuries we had, the life we had was still precious. It wasn't a grand life. It wasn't a perfect life. But it was mine.

And then they got sick.

I remember it as if the memory has been stitched together, filled with fraying threads and moments lost in a fog of panic and sorrow. The coughing fits, the fevered sweats, the shaking hands that once gripped mine so confidently. In their bed, one night, my mother stared at the ceiling, her eyes distant.

"Don't cry for me, Iris," she said, trying to smile through the exhaustion. "Promise me you'll remember, no matter what happens."

I didn't understand. I couldn't understand how a sickness could undo everything, how it could steal their strength so quickly. I remember thinking I could fix it, that I would find a cure, bring something back into the world of dark moments, but it wasn't enough. There was never enough.

There came the quiet night when I was told they were gone. My body felt frozen, but my mind-my mind raged against it all. What was I supposed to do with all the dreams they had left behind? What was I supposed to do with the space that expanded in my chest, taking away the air?

But no one told me that my life was ending too.

In the days that followed, social services came. It's funny, isn't it? How quickly your life changes, like when a leaf drifts away from its tree, carried by some unseen force, unaware of what's next. I wasn't allowed to see them anymore. I wasn't allowed to keep their things.

I still remember their voices in my head as the worker came in. My father's rough whisper, his always-worried words: You need to survive. You need to thrive. You can do it. And then my mother, her bright voice telling me to not just get through the world, but to conquer it.

Conquer it. CONQUER IT.

A laugh burst from my chest. It wasn't a real laugh. Not then. Not now. It was more a bitter escape, a tiny hole through the deep press of grief.

The orphanage wasn't like they said it would be in the pamphlets. It was loud. It was dirty. It was crowded and cold. There were other kids there, too many of them. They eyed me like they could see through my soul. I knew how they felt-their eyes followed my every step, the way they had followed my parents' backs when they'd walked away. Those eyes felt sharp, probing.

But no one was here to protect me, and I quickly learned to blend in with the crowd, to lose myself within the pack of kids all trying to figure out their place. There was an urgency there, one I had never been taught to feel before. It was a different kind of game.

At first, I cried at night. I would hug my knees to my chest in the dark of my small cot, listening to the echo of unfamiliar voices. I didn't understand the rules of this place. It wasn't like when my parents were alive and the world felt small, warm, and certain. Now, the room I slept in felt too big. And cold. The dreams I had once painted were fading, swallowed by the new weight that pressed on my chest every day.

In a place where no one belonged, I tried to fight to still belong to something.

But before long, that fight turned into something darker. Something I didn't have words for.
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❤️❤️❤️❤️.                                                       

The orphanage wasn't a home-it was a war zone. Every day felt like surviving the trenches, and I was just another pawn on the battlefield.

From the moment I woke up, Sister Agnes was already waiting. Her presence was like an oppressive shadow that followed every inch of me. It didn't matter how much I tried, I couldn't escape it.

I stood in line with the others, my feet cold against the concrete floor, my stomach tight from hunger. The others, with their wide, empty eyes, didn't even look at me. They had their own battles, their own fears. But the whispers always came, and the reason was simple: I stood out.

I didn't look like the rest of them. Even in this world where beauty meant nothing, my face had caught the eye of Sister Agnes-and that meant trouble.

"Get those hands off your hips, Iris," she snapped, her voice sharp like the crack of a whip.

I stiffened, straightening up quickly. The others avoided looking in my direction, careful not to draw attention. Sister Agnes was always searching for someone to pick on, and today, it seemed it was my turn. Again.

Her boots clicked with purpose across the room as she stepped closer. I braced myself, knowing there was no use trying to talk my way out of it. The others were smart-too smart. They had learned long ago that saying anything could make things worse.

"You think you're special?" Sister Agnes asked, her voice calm but full of venom. She towered over me, her eyes scanning my face like she was deciding where to start tearing me apart. "The other girls might be able to hide under the radar, but not you. No, you had to show up here with your pretty face and get everyone in trouble."

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my breath steady as my hands balled into fists at my sides. That was it, wasn't it? Sister Agnes hated the way I looked. She hated that I caught attention, even though it was the last thing I ever asked for.

"I was looking the other way when you first came here," she continued, her voice lowering, icy and dangerous. "But the longer I have to stare at you, the more I realize you need to be taught a lesson. Everyone else here-" She paused, glancing around the room, watching the others cringe away from me, "they have been molded into good, obedient girls. But you..."

Her fingers twitched. The tension in the room was so thick, it choked me.

I braced myself as she raised her hand. A loud slap echoed through the hall as she slapped the book I was holding out of my hand. It flew to the side with a crash, and I could already feel the heat of a stinging, humiliating tear trickling down my cheek. But this was a daily occurrence, and at this point, I knew better than to fight back.

"You don't even deserve to sit at a table with the others," she spat. Her hands gripped my arms like iron, pulling me towards the nearest corner, where the others wouldn't dare approach. "Maybe you'll learn to stay out of trouble if you're isolated long enough."

I took the punishment without a word, the humiliation burning through me like fire. The other girls avoided even the smallest eye contact. If they had any empathy, it wasn't worth it. Empathy would get them punished too, and that meant silence.

Eventually, Sister Agnes pulled away from me with one last glance. Her lip curled. "Get back to work."

The cold stare in her eyes as I limped to the workbench said it all: she wasn't done with me. She'd never be done with me. Not until I was broken and alone in ways that could never be fixed.

As I huddled in my corner, the heavy weight of everyone's stares pressing against my back, I could feel a shift. Not just from them, but from something inside me.

Something sharp, painful, that told me everything was only just starting. I wasn't just going to be one more name in the ever-expanding list of girls who let the orphanage grind them down.

But I wasn't foolish either. In this place, standing out meant pain.

So, I chose to keep quiet. To obey. To shut myself off.

Every part of me burned to push back. But I was too smart to show that. In this world, staying hidden was my only means of survival.


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