《Ariya of Zakariya》


 Prologue

    ARIYA OF Zakariya


    Prologue


    "Khashayar, they''re right behind us!"


    Khashayar urged Rih to go faster. True to his name his black steed kicked his legs harder. His hooves barely touched the forest floor, one with the wind. Flushed close to Khashayar''s back was Sheba, who had cried in a tremulous voice when she looked over her shoulder.


    A baby laid hidden within the folds of Sheba''s dark cloak, blissfully oblivous of the outside world. She was barely three days old, quiet and docile in her sleep. Her mother was wide awake, eyes so stark in fear you could see the veins edging them.


    Her fear wasn''t for her life. Hers didn''t matter. She could be dead, but her spirit would never allow the monks of Ulqem to lay a hand on her daughter.


    "Don''t look back, Sheba, " Khashayar ordered. "Your pale face stands out like a flame in the dark forest."


    They heard a whistle flash past their ears. It was the deadly sound of an arrow. The monks had finally resorted to weapons to subdue them, even if it meant risking the child''s life.


    More whistles, more arrows.


    Rih jerked violently. A poison-laced arrow had claimed his left hind leg. The horse gave a dangerous lurch, crying a frightened neigh in panic. In reflex Khashayar grabbed Sheba before he braced the back of his shoulder, tossing themselves to the ground.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    He sprung back on his toes. Rih disappeared into the forest, swallowed by the night''s darkness. He would gradually grow weaker, and would not live to see the morning''s sunrise.


    Khashayar turned. The monks, bearing their flaming torches were covering the short distance between them. He shook Sheba hard as she curled on the grass, hugging her baby tightly.


    "Get up! We need to run!"


    "...shayar..." she called his name, her voice faint and weak. Her dark hair fell limply across her face like dead snakes. Her cloak unraveled to reveal her sleeping child, the one the whole country rested their fates on. Zakariya''s new goddess. But his eyes were not on the baby. Instead they were trained to the arrow sticking out of the woman''s back.


    Behind them the approaching gallop of the priests'' horses increased in intensity.


    They called out Khashayar''s name as they reached him, and then his new title. "Apostate!" they snarled, as they waved their torches, their horses rounding the pair, dust kicking in their faces.


    Khashayar''s hand twitched, but he curbed back the impulse to draw out the heavy sword resting by his hip. He thought of the vow he had made. How a long time ago, he had roamed through vast lands with his army, raided and pillaged villages, captured great beasts and women alike. In a bid to redeem back his thread-thin humanity, he left the savage battlefield and in his aimless wanderings as a vagrant, discovered the Temple of Ulqem. His new allegiance was pledged to the goddess who ruled Zakariya. For fifty moons he served the temple, and devoted himself to their holy cause.


    But where he was right now, and what he chose to do, befitted his title as an apostate deservingly.


    The monks aimed their arrows at him, their bows stretching taut with tension. The child began to shift, before bursting into a wail that pierced the thin air. A pool of blood soaked the cloak she was swaddled in.


    "Sheba," Khashayar whispered. She didn''t move. His jaw clenched and his face shook.


    Khashayar reached for his sword.


    To be continued...

 01: Shadow Man

    01: Shadow Man


    Ten years ago, in a small, obscure town in Norwich, England


    He was a behemoth, his huge size occupying almost her whole bedroom. And because he was made of darkness, his presence threw a black cloak over everything, even though Angie always kept the nightlight on.


    Angie lay cold and transfixed in her bed.


    "Ariya," the Shadow Man rasped. He had burning coalstones for eyes that lent no light nor warmth. His voice was sandpaper, scratching into her ears.


    "Ariya," he called again.


    Angie had screamed when she woke up. As she was running to her guardian''s room she could feel a warm wetness in the middle of her pajamas pants. She had wet herself.


    Angie banged her small fists desperately on the thick wooden door.


    "Clive!" she screamed. "Help me, please! There''s a monster in my room!"


    The door opened quickly. A look of shock crossed over her guardian''s face when he saw the eight-year-old girl, her face tear-stricken and red. He strode over to her bedroom while she waited outside, her knees quivering.


    When Clive appeared from her room a while later, he held a pinched expression.


    "There is nothing there, Angie," he said quietly.


    "But I saw him! He was real! It wasn''t a nightmare!"This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Clive bent down and grasped her arms. "I went into your room. There''s no monster that you speak of." His nose flared as his eyes flicked down. "And you wet yourself."


    He sounded more concerned of her soiled pants than the fact that the Shadow Man had appeared. No, not concerned. Angry.


    "I''m sorry," Angie whispered, looking down in shame.


    His steely gaze on her remained. Angie cowered. The last thing she wanted was to make him mad. Clive was scary when he was mad.


    Even scarier than the Shadow Man.


    "Go and wash yourself," he ordered.


    When Angie was done, she returned reluctantly to her room. Clive had chosen for her a new pair of pajamas, laid neatly on the bed.


    I should not be scared of Clive, her little voice said as she wore her clean clothes. After all Clive was her god-sent angel like the one Sister Beatrice used to sing songs about, with his beautiful blue eyes and kind voice. The one who rescued her from that terrible orphanage. She could eat as many puddings she wanted now thanks to him.


    But the Shadow Man... The Shadow Man and his suffocating darkness was evil.


    "He spoke to me just now," Angie whispered, as if imparting a secret.


    Clive looked sharply at her. "Who?"


    "The Shadow Man."


    His eyebrows gave a subtle twitch. "What did he tell you?"


    "He..." Angie started, but for some reason she could not remember. She could not even invoke the ghastly image of the creature as much as she tried. There was only a thick fog inside her mind.


    His eyes narrowed. Clive was gazing hard at her, but it felt like his eyes were penetrating through her instead. A strange look wore on his face.


    "Angie," he said very firmly, gripping her arms tightly again. This time her body shook with his force. He was hurting her. But Angie couldn''t say anything. Her heart skipped hard and fast in her chest and her voice was stuck.


    "Angie, the Shadow Man doesn''t exist."


    And that was how she ended up in the basement. Clive had locked the door from outside and took away the key, and he trapped her in there all alone until morning, in the dank, yellow-lit basement where it smelled of mold and mothballs, even though she had cried and screamed, even though she had apologized a thousand times.


    After that night Angie never mentioned about the Shadow Man again.


    To be continued...

 02: Rebel

    Chapter 02: Rebel


    Present time, somewhere in a town in Norwich, England, still small and obscure


    Angie tiptoed her way stealthily down the stairs. She lived in the house long enough to know exactly how to maneuver in the dark silence. Experience was the key. After years of sneaking about, her feet had developed an adept muscle memory¡ªperusing the right position and amount of pressure on the floor to move like a cat burglar in the night.


    As always the staircase was the trickiest part. It grew worse over time. Angie lived in a very old house that was built in the 60s. Clive being the stinking miser that he was (those were Jean''s words, not hers) never occurred in his mind to renovate their home for a fresher breath of life. As a result the stairs groaned and creaked like an octogenarian''s joints, and you would use it with the reckless fear that the wood might just splinter and break under your weight, and then it''s goodbye to your good foot.


    Her sneaking antics started out innocently when she was young. Lights off were always at nine. To nurse her nightly hunger pangs, she would creep into the kitchen for that piece of chocolate cookie in the jar.


    It evolved to more challenging feats as she entered her teens¡ªfor example, watching Hollywood movies on the telly in the living room, with just a tiny dash of sound. She couldn''t watch it in Clive''s presence; he found them unwholesome and distasteful. But there would always be re-runs on midnight. Angie would sit cross-legged on the floor close to the television, all excited and rapt in attention. If she was feeling particularly adventurous, she would even stay for the late-night talk shows, depending on who the guest was.


    Now in her later years, she was brave, no, mad enough to start sneaking out of the house. It was all Jean Moreno''s fault. Jean her best friend was always teaching her bad things.


    Angie trod on light feet as she skipped down the staircase. It was the trickiest because it was also the closest to Clive''s room upstairs. Passing the stairs meant passing half the battle. Once done she rushed for the front door.


    She spied a glance at the wall clock, a German-made Black Forest. It was fifteen minutes to ten, which meant it would chime soon. Quickly she reached for the door knob.


    "Where are you heading to, Angie?"


    Angie froze in the dark.


    Her eyes slid fearfully to the direction of the voice, towards the armchair at the far, dark corner of the living room. A still figure of a man sat there. Her chest nearly collapsed.


    Impossible! How could she have not noticed him there? She swore she hadn''t heard him leave his room after dinner.


    "Angie."


    She shut her eyes when Clive switched on the lampshade beside him.


    "Jean¡ª" she stuttered, taking a step backwards from his approaching figure.


    "What about Jean?"


    "She has an emergency," Angie breathed, before she could stop herself. She didn''t dare to look at his face. Clive could smell her fear like a hawk.


    "An emergency? Why didn''t you tell me?" He retrieved his phone from his pocket. Angie gaped as she realized he was dialing Jean''s number.


    No, please, Angie pleaded desperately, don''t answer. Don''t answer the call. It was too late. She heard Jean''s murmur from his phone, amidst some noise in the background.


    "Hi Jean, it''s Mr Colson here," he spoke, his usual terse voice suddenly tuned for a more cordial lilt. A warm smile cracked deep lines, invisible before, around his eyes and mouth. Amazing how a mere shift of facial muscles could alter one''s demeanor so much. It was one of the things about him that unnerved Angie.


    To everyone in town Clive Colson was probably one of the nicest people you''d know.


    You''d catch him occasionally at the grocery store or the dry cleaners, and he''d pass you by with a curt nod and a polite smile. Clive was a man of few words who avoided the watering holes or anywhere that represented a hotbed of gossip, like it was the plague. But he always offered help whenever people needed it, and he was a staple volunteer at charity drives. The men respected him, the housewives found him strapping for his age. His reputation was spotless.


    Years ago Clive had worked for Child Protection Services as a counsellor, something the townsfolk regarded as a noble job. It was also how Angie had met him. After adopting her, he promptly resigned from his post. Now he was at home everyday, holed away in his office doing god-knows-what.


    Only Angie had seen his dark side. Only Angie knew how terrifying Clive was capable of being.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    "I can hear really loud music in your background, Jean. My goodness, what a racket! What''s exactly going on there, I wonder?" he further probed in his friendly manner. Despite saying bad things behind his back, even Jean was not immune when he switched on his charm.


    "Oh, a farewell party for a friend? I see. And I assume Angie''s invited too, isn''t she? Well sadly she''s down with a fever, so it''s impossible for her to make it." His steely blue eyes locked with Angie''s terrified grey ones. "I know, it''s rather unfortunate."


    The call ended shortly. His smile slowly dissipated, his warmth dissolving, his features turned rigid as stone.


    "So it''s an emergency farewell party, is it, Angie?" he waved the phone. He took a step forward and Angie backed away, frightened.


    "Why would you lie and resort to this behaviour? Who taught you to do this? Was it Jean?"


    The wall hit her back. Angie''s fear of him gripped her throat like a vice, paralysing her. That was how she always felt with him. Powerless.


    She could hear her own heart threatening to burst from her ribcage. And in the quiet house where she lived alone with him, Clive could hear it too.


    Close. She was so close to escaping. All she ever wanted was to go a party, for the first time in her life. She had even gotten a new dress with her allowance. She had never bought her own clothes before. Her guardian curated her wardrobe, from her cumbersome gingham dresses, right down to her plain cotton underwear.


    At first Angie liked the order of things in her life. When she was younger she firmly believed everything Clive did was for her own good, because he knew what was best.


    Home-schooled until secondary school, she learnt the hard way that dressing like a character from the Little House on the Prairie was a faux pas among her peers.


    People were always snickering at her in school. She was awkward and shy with her schoolmates, and barely had anything in common to talk with them. It was hard to make friends, not when the "outcast" label was already slapped on her.


    Only Jean Moreno stuck to her. They had been next-door neighbours growing up, before the Morenos moved further into the neighbourhood. Jean was the only true friend Angie ever had. She was Angie''s pathway to the bizarre world out there. Leading her by the hand, Jean taught her how to speak like the other kids and what kind of music to listen to.


    Still, she found it hard to blend with people of her age, who seemed like a different species altogether. They were a brazen lot, most of them, exhibiting none of the modesty Clive had imbibed in her. For years she was quite content to be invisible, as long as nobody disturbed her.


    There was Jean Moreno, and then there was also Ansel Wyner.


    Ansel Wyner was the new boy in Strathmore Secondary. His family arrived in town in a boisterous RV, and before she knew it, he was assigned as her lab partner. Their lives couldn''t be more opposite of each other. His meals were always accompanied with lively chatter, while she ate her food in silent reflection. And yet if you observed closely, you¡¯d find that there was something innately similar about the both of them, something only the most sensitive of minds could detect.


    Inside the lab, behind their safety glasses, they saw it immediately in each other upon meeting for the first time. A gentle, quiet rippling in the spirit, like that on the surface of a hidden lake tucked in the deepest of woods. Indiscernible from afar, but there. For that reason alone Angie liked Ansel, despite that he was always surrounded by people, and Ansel liked Angie, despite her eccentricities.


    When Ansel told her his family was moving again, this time to London, and he was throwing a farewell party¡ªAngie knew she had to go.


    But even in her mind that proved to be a Herculean task, not when Clive laid so many restrictions in her life. A curfew tied her from 7PM onwards. She wasn''t allowed to wear make-up and alter her appearance. Smoking and drinking was out of the question, and dating was a taboo subject altogether.


    She didn''t know it was abnormal until Jean pointed it out. That none of the teenagers lived like her.


    And she was turning eighteen in summer.


    "What is it, Angie?" Clive''s voice broke her thoughts. "What tempts you out there? Is it the need to be accepted within your peers?" His eyes widened, as something shifted in them. "Or is it that? Perhaps you desire male companionship?"


    He knew. God, he could read her like a book. Even if he hadn''t been aware of Ansel''s existence.


    Clive stared down at her new dress, his lip curling with disdain. "I don''t know what appalls me more. The fact that you''ve been dishonest, or this skanky dress you have on. Give me your phone, Angie."


    "No."


    Angie had bristled in response. Her phone was one of her most precious possessions. Surrendering it meant she was being grounded and she had enough of it. Clive would send her down to the basement for the smallest of things.


    He offered his hand. "Give it to me, now."


    "I''m turning eighteen in summer, Clive," Angie defended, her voice wavering. She wasn''t sure where her sudden courage came from¡ªwas it Ansel? It felt like he was inside her, steering her forward. "In a few months, you have to relinquish your guardian rights of me. You have to learn to let me go."


    Clive breathed out a laugh. "Don''t be foolish, Angie. It doesn''t matter how old you get. You''re staying with me forever."


    A sliver of fear wormed into her. "You¡ªyou can''t say things like that. It''s part of the law."


    "Then I''ll make my own laws," Clive whispered. Angie stilled. There was no trace of humour in his piercing eyes. He was dead serious.


    She closed her eyes and flinched when his hand came to touch her cheek. His voice never changed¡ªit was always soft and gentle. She loved it as a child. She loved everything about him, despite his occasionally cruel ways.


    But now his voice only served to make her anxious, its deep tone reverberating with animosity under her skin.


    "Angie, you must know the world is not the piece of wonderland it presents itself to be. You lived in the orphanage. You know the lowest form of depravity imaginable. There''s more out there, and even worse. That''s why I want to protect you, so you will not get hurt. Or did you forget the horrors you suffered? Should I remind you, Angie?"


    "No!" she cried out. With an uncanny strength, her hands pushed him back and he staggered back in shock. She ran to the door and yanked it open. The bracing night air greeted her face, cool and invigorating. Her lungs breathed it in.


    The clock chimed ten. For some reason Angie looked back.


    Clive was standing quietly in his spot. In the darkness his gaze peeked out at her, simmering with cold rage.


    "You can''t live without me, Angie. You can''t survive out there on your own."


    "Watch me," she taunted.


    And she marched into the night in her new dress.


    To be continued...

 03: Abduction

    03: Abduction


    Angie Colson walked briskly on the boardwalk by the sea, her hurried steps taking her to the beach villa where the party was held.


    There were small groups of people gathered at the seaside, pointing at the dark sky. Angie looked at the moon. She briefly remembered the news; that a lunar eclipse would transpire that night.


    A special eclipse that would occur every forty years. In the middle of the boardwalk, her feet stopped to watch the historic moment unfold. She would be almost sixty if she wanted to witness it again, and god knew if she was still alive then.


    The salty night breeze caressed her bare skin. Her frilly, black dress was sleeveless and stopped at her knees. She wasn''t used to feeling the wind on her limbs.


    Angie filched out her phone to call her best friend. "Jean, I''m on the way," she said.


    Jean was shrieking over the line. "Oh god, I didn''t think you''re coming! When your dad called me, I just couldn''t lie, you know! So you''re not really having a fever?"


    "If I was, I wouldn''t be walking at the beach at night. Did you know there''s an eclipse happening tonight? I''m watching it right now actually."


    "I knew it! What a lying prick your dad is!"


    Angie watched as the sun, ironically now a round black mass of darkness, edging close to obscure the moon. In a few minutes, the sun would swallow it completely.


    "Don''t call Clive that. You know I don''t like it."This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    "What? That I called him your dad, or that he''s a prick?"


    "Both. He''s my guardian and nobody gets to call him anything except me."


    She could hear Jean roll her eyes. "Whatever, take care of your daddy issues when you get home, okay? Right now just make your way here quickly. Or do you want me to ask Ansel to pick you up?" There was a shuffle of noise. "Hold on¡ªthat guy isn''t even here. Where did he disappear off to?"


    Jean continued to chatter over the line, but it fell on deaf ears. Angie''s focus had strayed, completely transfixed by the eclipse on the night sky. The moon looked different tonight, a small slice of white among the sullen clouds, slowly eaten away by a bigger, divine being. She beheld the vision carefully, as the wind whispered through her. It felt like the world had changed somehow for a brief moment, and she was part of that new world.


    Suddenly it seemed like that the seawaves were crashing louder. The waters had receded further than normal. The people on the beach had left. It was just her, standing alone on the boardwalk.


    She looked at the moon again. It was no longer there ¡ªthe sun had completely consumed it.


    In the dark distance, an insurmountable wall of water formed steadily and rapidly. The wind howled loud in Angie''s ears, chilling her deep into the marrow of her bones.


    A dark mass swirled in the waves. It swarmed out, bursting from the waters in black smoke, twisting and unfurling in the air like a plague of locust. Then it dispersed, flew to form a faint silhoutte, before scattering again in the wind. A pair of embers glowed red within.


    "Ariya."


    "Angie babe, you still there?"


    Her phone from Angie''s grasp. It slipped between the planks of the boardwalk, cluttering on the sand below.


    "Ariya," the sandpaper-like voice rasped again.


    It was the Shadow Man from her childhood nightmares. Angie''s body stood paralysed with horror as she watched him materialize before her eyes, even as the gigantic seawave loomed past the shoreline, even as it threatened to swallow her whole.


    The wave crashed onto the boardwalk in a resounding roar. It rolled further to the empty benches, shook the tall palm trees.


    When it finally ebbed away back into the sea, the boardwalk was left clean and empty.


    To be continued...

 04: The Orphan No One Wanted

    04: The Orphan No One Wanted


    In her profile in St Francis Orphanage''s registry of children, it was written in a yellowed, dog-eared page that Angie was only three days old when a group of loggers had heard her crying in the woods. Her records ran back to eight years ago, in a far-flung town called Brierley in South Yorkshire, England.


    Growing up in the orphanage, she never liked the name bestowed upon her. Angie. When she pictured an Angie, a red-head would first come to her mind. A dash of freckles perhaps, with a winsome smile.


    Instead, the Angie that stared at her in the mornings from the speckled bathroom mirror had hair that glowed cobalt under the sun. It turned obsidian at night, hanging like small iridescent snakes past her shoulders. Her eyes were wide-set and too big for her face, looking haunted, bearing the colour of Brierley''s perpetual rainy skies. Angie was scrawny as a child, mouse-like, quiet. She didn''t speak, she whispered.


    Someone had scribbled a careless "unknown" in her profile to describe her ethnicity. It didn''t fare well for her prospects. Despite being matched several times, one look was all it took for them to reject her. For no one wanted to adopt such a strange-looking girl with an ambiguous background.


    "Angie, why don''t you go out in the sun and take a fresh breath of air?" Sister Beatrice would tell her everyday.


    "It''s cold outside," Angie would reply.


    The sister jabbed her side. "Of course, with a bag of bones like that. Look at the way your elbows are sticking out."


    Everyday Sister Beatrice would discover Angie by the window, watching the other children play.


    There the children were blissfully open of their dislike of Angie, calling her names like "Ghost" and "Boogie" and isolating her from their activities. The adults were less proud of themselves. They''d liked to believe they were patient, good-natured creatures, but the child brought out a shameful side within them. With Angie they were snappish, brusque, intolerant.


    Surely, there must be something innately wrong with her, their hearts whispered, for such a miserable child to exist. To protect themselves from such bad thoughts, the caretakers would avoid dealing with her whenever they could. As a result, Angie''s care in the orphanage was the most negligent one.


    But one day, a visitor came to see her.


    Angie was standing by the windows as usual. She liked doing that¡ªamongst the children she felt awkward and voiceless, but away from them she possessed an all-seeing eye, like a omniscient god observing the errant antics of his followers.


    The visitor was broad-shouldered, easily towering Sister Beatrice beside him. Angie supplied him with an indifferent glance before turning back to the windows. The old nun coughed.


    "Mr Colson is here. Remember what I said? He''s a social worker from the government, here to visit St Francis. All the other children have met him, which leaves only you."


    Sister Beautrice had spun stories about the man to everyone, before he even stepped into the orphahange. Her praises placed him on a pedestal, where she likened him to an angel from the Bible. Angie didn''t want to see the social worker. Or rather she didn''t want him to see her. Shock, with a slight recoil of the body, was the common reaction of people meeting her for the first time. And what was reflected in their eyes? Some grotesque, odd-footed animal?


    The man walked forward, his footsteps measured on the linoleum floor. Bristling, Angie turned at last and found him kneeling down before her. He was so tall their heads levelled. He removed his hat. She saw the clearest pair of eyes, blue like a proper summer''s day.


    When Angie blinked, she was sitting in a moving vehicle at the front seat, a seatbelt strapped across her body. Her eyes darted around the car''s interior in wild confusion¡ªa hat on the dashboard, a quiet jazzy song on the radio¡ªuntil they landed on the person driving at her side. He looked vaguely familiar. Then his blue eyes peered at her and Angie remembered.


    "Hello," he said.


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    Angie raised her head slowly. She tried to gather the pieces in her mind, blurry, fuzzy at the edges. How did she get here? Where were they going? She swore she was standing by the windows in St Francis just a moment ago.


    The tall man with Sister Beatrice. The social worker who was visiting them. He had knelt down to greet her like a knight before his queen. Angie took a deep breath to quell her nervous voice.


    "Are you...bringing me...to the government?"


    "Should I?" he asked her back.


    Was it a trick question? The sisters at St Francis were full of them. She shook her head, apprehensive. "I''ve... I''ve been good."


    The man nodded. Suddenly he swerved the car right and it entered into a long road, flanked by yellow fields at its sides. Something told her they were no longer in Brierley.


    "Forget about your time at the orphanage. You shall be under my care henceforth. My name is Clive Colson. You may call me Clive."


    Angie''s hands smoothed against the brushed cotton of her dress, a tickling sensation under her palms. She wasn''t dreaming, was she? She had always wondered what they would sound like. The words that, yes, they wanted her. Yes, we choose you. Yes, we''re going to be your new family.


    She had finally heard them, but it wasn''t what she envisioned.


    This man, Clive, sounded like he was reading the news. There was no emotion in his delivery, let alone joy. His manner was brisk yet eloquent, his British English clipped with a unique accent. She must have imagined the tear that slipped from his eye when he first greeted her.


    "Your name?" he spoke again, and this time his simple question surprised her.


    "You don''t know?" she asked.


    "Oh, don''t mind me. I skipped the paperwork. Too tedious."


    Angie pressed him with him a long, incredulous look. She wasn''t sure what "paperwork" meant. Her eyes dared to hover over his features. His head almost touched the ceiling of his car. His hair was ice-blond, combed tightly to the side, neat but also rigid-looking. Which was the whole impression he gave her. Was this how angels were supposed to look like?


    "Are you a real angel? Sister Beatrice says you are," she said.


    Clive laughed. "Unfortunately the existence of angels is not within my line of beliefs. Does that mean I''m not one, however?"


    She then turned away, wondering what the sister had said when he took her.


    "You know, she was very grateful," Clive mentioned, as though reading her mind. "Ecstatic, actually. The nun was practically jumping in joy." He paused. "She won''t be missing you, would she?"


    Angie pouted, saying nothing.


    "Here," he then said, opening a compartment in front of him. He brought out a brown paper bag and let her peer its contents. There was a doughnut and a cinnamon roll inside. "Which one would you like? It''s going to be a long while before the next stop, so help yourself."


    Angie grabbed onto the cinnamon roll. She didn''t realise she was hungry until she found her teeth sinking into the doughnut as well. Alarmed, she tried to hide the empty paper bag from Clive, who drove the car farther away from the place she had called her home for almost a decade.


    Eight years. She had waited for eight years since she was born for someone to pick her up. She saw the children come and go in the orphanage, and yet she always remained there to stay, like a discarded leftover someone forgot. After awhile she stopped hoping. She stopped waiting.


    Today someone took a good look at Angie, and decided that they wanted her. Angie was thus accepted for the first time.


    This person would give her a proper home to live in. She would get to have her own room to prance about, and a big bed to jump and roll about. Angie could imagine neither. And most importantly, he would care and shower her with love like one would with his own child, and in turn she would love him with all her heart.


    That was how it went, the greatest order for an orphan like her. A warm emotion welled up in Angie, like a spring gurgling from the ground. She touched her chest. Maybe it was Clive''s kind eyes, or the delicious snack he had given her. In either way, she could believe in him for a better life.


    "My name is Angie."


    She was looking through the windshield at the empty distance up ahead. It was almost seven, the sun dipping for the horizon, the skies fading into a deep shade of blue. No, Clive thought, not just blue, but cobalt blue, when the sun touched her hair.


    His fine eyebrows shot up. "Is that what they named you? You look nothing like an Angie."


    She let herself wonder aloud. "When I think of that name, it sounds like a person with red hair..."


    "A dash of freckles, perhaps?" Clive added.


    Angie nodded slowly and found herself smiling.


    "A dash of freckles¡­ And a winsome smile."


    To be continued...