Chapter 2

Reverend Thorne swept the last splinters of the wooden bird into the fireplace.

He felt a brief pang, like a distant ache, but pushed it away.

He told himself he was cleansing his space, his mind, from a foolish attachment.

Elara' s disappearance was a problem solved.

His duty was to Seraphina now, to the church.

A few days later, it would have been Elara' s nineteenth birthday.

Thorne remembered, a fleeting, unwelcome thought.

He decided on a gesture. Not for Elara, but for appearances.

He would have a small, simple meal prepared at the orphanage.

He would say a prayer for the "lost girl."

Seraphina was with him when he made the arrangement.

"Oh, Uncle Eli," she said, her voice sweet and concerned. "You' re so kind to think of her, even now. But don't dwell on it. It will only upset you."

Her hand rested on his arm. He nodded, accepting her "comfort."

He used Seraphina's presence as an excuse for his continued detachment from Elara's memory.

Elara' s spirit, though fading, still lingered, a weak echo in Havenwood.

The thought of her birthday brought a sharp memory.

Not of Thorne, but of her mother, Eleanor.

It was her tenth birthday. Elara had found a few wild berries.

She tried to make a tiny, lopsided tart for herself in the orphanage kitchen.

A small, secret celebration.

She had hoped, for a moment, to feel like a normal child.

Eleanor Vance had visited the orphanage that day, a rare occurrence.

She found Elara with the messy, half-made tart.

Eleanor' s face twisted with disgust.

"What is this filth?" Eleanor had hissed. "You think you deserve to celebrate?"

She grabbed the tart and smashed it on the floor.

"You are a stain, Elara. A reminder of sin. Birthdays are not for things like you."

Eleanor had then slapped Elara hard across the face.

The sting, the shame, it all came back to Elara' s fading spirit.

Reverend Thorne had walked in just as Eleanor raised her hand to strike Elara again.

"Eleanor," Thorne said, his voice calm but firm. "That is enough."

Eleanor lowered her hand, her expression sullen.

Thorne' s intervention had not been for Elara' s sake, not truly.

He was concerned about the decorum of the church orphanage.

A scene like this was unseemly.

He had looked at Elara then, a brief, unreadable glance.

He offered no comfort, just a quiet instruction to clean the mess.

Elara' s spirit felt a profound weariness.

She had died. Her murderer, Silas Blackwood, was free.

The man she idolized had sent her to her death and was marrying her sister.

Her mother hated her.

What was the point of lingering?

"I am ready to go," her spirit whispered to the empty air. "There is nothing left."

Thorne, in his study, felt a sudden shiver.

He rubbed his arms, a fleeting concern for… he wasn' t sure what.

He thought of Elara, briefly. Such a frail girl.

He quickly shifted the blame. Seraphina' s illness had been severe.

Sending Elara for the herb, though risky, had been for Seraphina' s good.

Seraphina' s intentions were pure, even if the outcome for Elara was tragic.

It was not his fault.

Later that week, Elara' s spirit overheard two groundskeepers talking near the church.

"They found a body up in the Ozarks," one said. "Girl. Torn up bad by animals, or worse."

"Unclaimed," the other added. "No one knows who she is. Just lying there in some county morgue."

Elara' s spirit froze.

Her body. Mutilated. Unclaimed.

The final, cold confirmation of her brutal end.

Her spirit grew fainter, almost transparent.