CHAPTER NINETEEN

I typed into the search bar, "the Blossom Home Orphanage missing case."

The second I hit enter, a flood of articles filled the screen, each one containing their own version of the truth. I scrolled past clickbait headlines and overdone speculation until one particular title pulled me in like a magnet—The Enigmatic Demise of Blossom Home: Unraveling the Mystery of the Vanished Orphans.

The byline? Jenna Myles.

I knew that name.

She was sharp, relentless. A journalist who didn't just chase headlines—she chased ghosts, and usually caught them.

I clicked.

Deep within the heart of a deserted forest, nestled between towering trees of dried branches and winding streams, stood the Blossom Home orphanage. This enigmatic institution was buried in mystery, with an otherworldly phenomenon that defied explanation: every night, the tide would inexplicably rise, flooding the grounds, only to recede with the morning sun. This bizarre occurrence persisted regardless of the weather, baffling the children and staff alike.

I sat back in my chair, brows furrowing. Tide? In the middle of a forest?

The orphanage was home to dozens of children, ranging from toddlers to teenagers. However, one fateful night, the residents vanished without a trace. The staff, the children, and all personal belongings disappeared. The authorities launched an investigation, but no signs of foul play or natural disaster were found. The case went cold, and the Blossom Home stood abandoned, its secrets locked within its crumbling walls.

Two years later, a group of hikers stumbled upon a haunting discovery in the woods surrounding the orphanage. The skeletal remains of the missing children were found buried beneath the earth, their bodies eerily arranged in a pattern that suspected a deliberate burial. The discovery sent shock waves through the community, and the investigation was reopened.

I swallowed, the air in my lungs suddenly thick. There was something personal about this. Something that itched at the back of my brain. How had I failed to remember this? How had all these detail manage to disappear from my memory?

As the authorities worked to identify the remains and determine the cause of death, questions swirled about the circumstances surrounding the disappearance. What drove the children to be buried in the woods? Was it a heinous crime, or a desperate attempt to protect them? The strange tidal phenomenon, which had been a peculiar aspect of life at the orphanage, hold secrets that might never be uncovered.

I read the last paragraph out loud, voice low and steady:

"The Blossom Home orphanage now stands as a haunting memory to the mysterious events that unfolded within its walls. The unexplained tidal phenomenon remains a topic of speculation. As the community grapples with the aftermath of the tragic discovery, the Blossom Home continues to captivate the imagination, a place where the boundaries between reality and mystery meet."

And then the final line hit me like a brick.

"The story of Blossom Home serves as a gentle reminder that some secrets may forever remain buried, much like the skeletal remains of the children who once called it home."

I sat back, staring at the screen. The tide. The bones. The disappearance.

It wasn't just a cold case.

It was a damn ghost story.

I read the part again about the tide—"every night, the tide would inexplicably rise, flooding the grounds, only to recede with the morning sun."

My eyes flicked to the window. The moon hung up in the sky. The air outside was crisp but dry. And yet—I could hear it. The water faintly lapping at the edge of something.

I grabbed my flashlight.

No rain for the past few days, and yet the tide was up.

Something wasn't adding up.

I slipped out of my room, hoodie zipped, footsteps light. I kept my body language easy, casual, like I was just stepping out for a smoke or a midnight stroll. The old lady at the reception was still in her spot, knitting like always, her eyes glassy and unreadable behind round spectacles.

I gave her a tight nod. She didn't even look up.

The second I turned the corner, I ducked behind the hedges, cutting through the bush behind the complex. My boots crunched against twigs and broken branches. The air was colder back here, thicker somehow.

I flicked on my flashlight.

Just trees. Lots of them. Their branches bare, peeking through the sky like skeletal fingers. It should've ended there. Forest, fog, and nothing.

But then—I saw it.

A hidden path.

And at the end of it? An entrance. Narrow. Carved into the side of the complex. Like it had been intentionally concealed.

"What the hell…" I murmured under my breath, stepping toward it.

The path led into a hallway.

Wooden floorboards creak under my weight with every step of my boot. It was long. Narrow. The air grew tensed the deeper I went, and the walls on either side were covered in peeling wallpaper. Faded flowers.

A door waited at the very end.

It was old. Weathered. And worse—there were stains on the handle.

Red.

Dried.

Blood.

My heart kicked up. Not in panic. In adrenaline. Something told me to turn around.

Instead, I stepped closer.

And that's when it happened.

The doorknob began to twist.

I froze.

Not a creak. Not a groan. Just the steady, slow rotation of the handle, as if someone on the other side was trying to open it.

I didn't wait.

I moved fast, slipping into the nearest dark corner into an old cabinet that had been left rotting in the hallway. I crouched low, flashlight off, ears straining for every sound.

The door creaked open.

And, a shadow spilled into the hallway.

And I held my breath, completely still.

I didn't see the shadow at first—but I heard it.

Sharp, deliberate clicks on the wooden floorboards. Heels. Not kitten heels either—these sounded tall, pointed, lethal. Definitely a woman. But not just any woman. She walked like she owned the place. No hesitation, no pause. Just that steady, confident walk of someone used to power, used to silence bowing in her presence.

I pressed further into the cabinet inside the rusted storage cabinet, hoping the walls could mysteriously open up and accept me in an embrace. My breath hitched when her footsteps slowed. She was close. Too close. From the way she moved, I could tell she was scanning the space—assessing. I couldn't even swallow. I just hoped for her to turn around.

And she did.

Her heels clicked in retreat—graceful, sharp, rhythmic. I dared to peek through a gap in the cabinet's edge. I didn't catch a glimpse of her but I knew she had turned her back. She was walking out. Relief spread through my chest like the first sip of bourbon after a long day.

And then—

My phone rang.

Loud. Jarring. Betraying me in the worst way.

I could feel my soul leave my body.

Her footsteps stopped instantly. Silence seeped into the room. Then—another sound. She was turning. She was walking back. Each step was measured, slow, and deadly. Closer. Closer.

I held my breath, pulse racing. She stopped just a few feet in front of me—so close I could smell her perfume. It was Chamomile. That means she wasn't the person I sought after, right? Her smell was different from the strong iceberg scent. It was something dark and expensive, like leather and roses dipped in gunpowder.

My hand hovered over my pocket, ready to smash the phone against the wall if I had to.

Then, just like that, she spun on her heel and walked away. Not rushed. Not panicked. Just calm, deliberate power.

She exited through the steel door at the far end of the hall. The click of it shutting behind her was the sweetest sound I'd heard all night.

The second it latched, I shot out from my hiding place the fastest I could. My boots barely touched the floor as I sprinted toward the opposite exit, adrenaline tearing through me.

I didn't stop. Didn't look back. Well, enough investigation for tonight, I guess?