Chapter Fifty Five - The Cracks Beneath The Surface

Leah stood on the front step of the Baldwin estate, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. The grand white columns rose like sentinels, their smooth, unyielding perfection casting long shadows in the late afternoon light. The house's facade gleamed, cold and imposing, like it had been polished to hide the rot beneath. Leah had lived across the street her whole life, yet she'd never felt more like a stranger than she did now, standing on this marble threshold.

She hesitated, her fingers curling into a fist before she finally raised her hand and knocked. The sound echoed hollowly behind the ornate door, like knocking on the lid of a tomb.

Silence.

For a moment, Leah glanced back toward her house — a modest, warm place with a chipped paint porch and flowerbeds that never stayed weeded — debating whether to just walk away. But before she could turn, the heavy door creaked open.

Aura stood there, barefoot and slouched in the doorway, wrapped in an oversized hoodie that swallowed her frame. Her sweatpants were rumpled, her hair was tangled and frizzy around her face, and her eyes — ringed in deep purplish shadows — looked like they hadn't closed properly in days. Her skin was pale, lips chapped, arms crossed tightly across her chest as though holding herself together by sheer will.

She looked like a ghost.

Leah offered a tentative smile. "Hey. I... was just checking in. You've missed practice again, and I..." she paused, lowering her voice, "I wanted to make sure you're okay."

Aura blinked slowly, clearly caught off guard by the visit. For a split second, Leah thought she might just shut the door in her face. But instead, Aura turned silently and walked away, leaving the door hanging open like a crooked invitation.

Leah stepped inside, closing it behind her. The house was still. Not the quiet of peace — the quiet of something broken. No footsteps, no distant piano playing, no laughter or raised voices. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the creak of the floorboards beneath her feet. The kind of silence that presses in on your ears.

She followed Aura into the living room. It was spotless, like always, but sterile — not lived-in. They sat on opposite ends of a velvet-trimmed couch that looked like it belonged in a museum. Between them, the air was thick with something unspoken.

"I'm sorry for just showing up." Leah said after a beat.

"It's just... you've been really off. And Harper too. Everyone's worried." She swallowed. "I'm worried."

At the mention of her sister's name, Aura flinched, her body going rigid. Her gaze dropped to her lap, fingers picking at the frayed edge of her hoodie sleeve.

"She's gone." she said quietly, the words scraping from her throat like glass. "Harper's gone. Don't you know?"

Leah's brows furrowed. "Gone where?"

Aura hesitated, her throat bobbing with the weight of the truth she'd held in too long. Her voice came out barely above a whisper. "Our grandmother had her sent her away.. because of her liking girls and stuff.."

Leah's eyes widened in disbelief, horror washing over her face.

"Are you serious? She sent her to a conversion camp?" she whispered.

Aura let out a hollow laugh, sharp and joyless. "Yeah. Like it's still the 1950s and love is something to be 'corrected.'"

The silence that followed felt heavier than the air itself. Leah stared at Aura, her heart cracking a little more with every second. She'd always known the Baldwins were complicated — powerful, polished, impossible to read — but this? This was cruelty dressed up in tradition.

"I'm so sorry, Aura." Leah said, her voice thick with emotion. She shifted closer, slowly reaching out, letting her hand hover near Aura's shoulder, waiting to see if she'd recoil.

Aura didn't move, but her jaw clenched hard.

"I should have stopped it." she whispered. "I should've seen it coming. I should've—"

"Aura.." Leah said, her voice firm despite the ache in it, "this is not your fault. None of this is on you."

Aura finally looked at her, eyes glassy, red-rimmed, exhausted. "I miss her." she breathed. "Everything feels wrong without her. Like the air's too thin. Like there's no gravity anymore."

Leah's throat tightened. Carefully, she slid her arm around Aura's shoulders. Aura froze for a second — as if unsure how to receive comfort — then slowly leaned in, the dam cracking just enough to let her rest her head on Leah's shoulder. Her body was trembling, and she smelled faintly of lavender soap and old tears.

"You're not alone." Leah murmured. "Everyone misses her. And we're here. We're still here."

They sat like that for a while, the silence no longer oppressive but soft, like a blanket draped over them.

Eventually, Leah leaned back slightly, giving Aura a faint smile — crooked, but sincere. "And when Harper comes home, we'll be here. Waiting."

Aura nodded slowly, a single tear slipping down her cheek despite her best effort to hold it back.

"Yeah." she whispered. "Waiting."

Back at Camp Redemption, Harper sat on the edge of her cot, her fingers knotting the coarse fabric of the scratchy blanket beneath her. The thin mattress sagged beneath her, and the chill of the concrete floor seeped into her bare feet. Every inch of the room was sterile — cinderblock walls painted a sickly off-white, ceiling tiles water-stained and sagging. It smelled of bleach and sorrow, like every surface had been scrubbed too hard to erase the truth.

Time didn't move in this place. Days blurred into each other — lectures, punishments, prayers. Her name was barely used anymore. Here, she was "troubled," "defiant," "sinful." Here, they stripped you bare and called it salvation.

Today was "Reflection." A euphemism for humiliation.

The girls sat in a circle in the common room, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, each one forced to confess why they were here and how they planned to "change." One by one, voices cracked and stammered. Some girls sobbed as they spoke. Others stared straight ahead, lips moving like ghosts reciting scripts.

Harper tuned it all out. Her mind drifted elsewhere — to Josie's laugh, to Aura's quiet comfort, to even Harriet's cold warnings. Did anyone know she was gone? Would anyone even come?

A movement broke her thoughts.

Across the circle sat a girl who looked like she didn't belong — not because she didn't fit in, but because she refused to. Her curls were wild, her posture was defiant, and a jagged scar cut through her brow like punctuation to a sentence Harper hadn't read yet. She didn't cry. Didn't speak. Just stared around the room with the same look Harper saw in her own reflection lately — fury.

Their eyes met. Not a long look — just enough. A flicker of something. Not sympathy. Not pity. Recognition.

The girl nodded once, barely perceptible, and Harper felt something shift inside her. A breath. A flicker of light. A spark.

Later, after the session, Harper lingered in the hallway, pretending to fix her shoelace. She watched as the girl slipped into a supply closet, smooth as smoke. No staff nearby. Her heart pounded.

She moved.

The door creaked open, and Harper slipped inside, shutting it softly behind her. The air was thick with dust and detergent. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with mops, toilet paper, and buckets.

The girl leaned against a shelf, arms crossed, one brow arched.

"Took you long enough, newbie." she said, smirking.

Harper didn't smile. "Who are you?"

"Name's Riley." Her voice was rough, like she didn't use it often. "Been here three months. Long enough to know no one's coming unless you come for yourself."

Harper's breath caught. "You're not one of them?"

Riley scoffed. "Please! I'd rather walk through fire than 'repent' for who I am." She stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper. 

"You look like you've still got your head on straight. Good. You're gonna need it. Keep your head down, play their game just enough to get by... and when the moment comes, you run."

Harper stared at her, words sticking in her throat. "'My head straight' isn't exactly the words I'd use to describe myself but.. can you really get out of here?"

Riley grinned — sharp, defiant. "If you're brave enough. Are you brave enough, newbie?"

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Harper felt something in her chest besides fear.