August 2nd, 1892
Dear Athan,
Do you remember the little hole in the wall, between our rooms? I used to wait all day just to see your eye blink through it. That was the best part of my day. I pretended we were spies, or knights with secret codes. I still remember the code we made: three blinks meant hello, one blink meant goodnight. Did you keep the code? I do.
The boys here are different. Not different like me and you. They shout when they're happy, and they shout when they're angry, and it's hard to tell the difference. One of them took my cup and poured ink in it. He called it a potion, but I knew it wasn't pretend. I drank it anyway because I didn't want to make a face.
They say I smell like dust and ghosts. One boy told me I look like I was born wrong. I didn't say anything. I think they want me to talk so they can make fun of my voice.
But it's alright. I sleep with the blanket Maman packed. It still smells like her perfume. A little. Mostly it just smells like old things now. I dream about home, sometimes. Not the whole house. Just you. And Maman's blue dress.
Do you think she got my letter? She didn't write back. I know she's busy. Maybe she just doesn't know what to say. Or maybe the mail takes longer when it rains. It rained yesterday. Maybe that's why.
I miss you. Write soon.
Your brother, Lou
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August 11th, 1892
Dear Athan,
I tried to talk to a boy named Emile. He said he's been here for four years. He told me not to get used to anything. He said, "It all goes away. Friends. Food. Feeling safe. So don't start thinking you'll get any of that."
I don't think he meant to be mean. He looked tired. Like the kind of tired Papa used to get when the papers piled up in the study. I remember watching the shadows move across his face when he thought nobody was looking. That was the only time he looked real.
I think about Papa sometimes. Even though he didn't like me. I still wanted him to.
The boys here laugh when I trip. Or when I drop things. They took my shoes and filled them with mud. I didn't say anything. I cleaned them out with my shirt and pretended it was funny.
I don't think it's working. They still don't like me.
Maman still hasn't written.
Love, Lou
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August 19th, 1892
Dear Athan,
There's a boy who cries in his sleep. He doesn't know I hear him. His name is Jules. I think he's younger than me. Last night, I climbed out of bed and left him a piece of my bread. He didn't say anything this morning, but he looked at me different.
I wish someone would leave me bread when I cry.
There are scratches under the hallway stairs. Long ones, like claws. The other boys say there's something down there. Something that screams when it's hungry. I asked Emile and he said, "Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to."
I'm scared to sleep now. I think I hear things too.
Love, Lou
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August 28th, 1892
Dear Athan,
They took the feather.
It was the only thing I had from outside. I found it in the courtyard. It was soft and gray and bent at the tip. I kept it in my Latin book. But yesterday, it was gone. I know it was Henri. He always stares at my desk when the masters leave. He calls me ghost-boy.
I heard two of them whisper about the East Wing. One said, "He's the one, you know. The cursed one."
Do you think I'm cursed?
Sometimes, I wonder if I'm broken in a way people can see. Like it leaks out of my skin and makes the air colder. That's what it feels like when they look at me. Like I ruined something just by standing there.
I'm trying to be brave. Like the knight in the picture book you used to hide under your pillow. The one with the broken sword. He still fought, even when no one believed he could win.
But it's hard to keep pretending I'm not scared. It's hard to sleep when the floor creaks and the wind sounds like it's whispering secrets.
Still no letters from Maman. Or from you.
Love, Lou
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September 3rd, 1892
Dear Athan,
Do you think my letters are getting lost? Or maybe someone is keeping them? Maybe there's a man who reads them and laughs and throws them in a fire.
I asked a teacher today if I could send another letter. He looked at me like I said something wrong. He said, "We don't have time for silly things. Focus on your studies."
I try to focus. But I keep thinking about home. About you. About how warm the sun felt in the garden that one time Maman let me sit on the stone bench while she read.
Here, everything is cold. Even the food.
I miss warmth. I miss your voice.
Do you remember my stuffed rabbit? The one with the ripped ear? I used to think it could talk. I wonder if it's still under my bed.
I'm lonely, Athan.
Love, Lou
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September 9th, 1892
Dear Athan,
Today I saw the headmaster speaking to the older boys. He gave them this look—like when Papa caught the gardener stealing fruit from the orchard. The boys nodded and then looked straight at me. I ran. I don't know why. It felt like something was going to happen.
Later, they cornered me by the stables. They said they were going to "test" if the curse was real. They pushed me in the mud and whispered prayers. One of them drew a circle around me with chalk. I didn't understand.
I keep wondering what I did. Why me? Why was I born wrong? Why did everyone decide I'm the bad one?
I haven't seen Jules in days. His bed is empty. No one says anything about it.
I'm scared.
Love, Lou
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September 15th, 1892
Dear Athan,
Still nothing.
The bulletin board is a lie. They only post the names they like.
I'm starting to forget the way your voice sounded. It's slippery now, like soap in water. I try to catch it in my mind but it fades too fast. I don't want to forget.
I think if I stop writing, I'll disappear. Not die, just vanish. Like the boys who leave and never come back. They just get quieter until they're gone.
But maybe I already am.
Still, I'll keep writing. Just in case.
Love, Lou
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October 2nd, 1892
Dear Athan,
They said I stole money.
They found coins in my desk drawer. I didn't put them there. I swear. I don't even know what kind they were. I think Henri planted them. Or maybe Luc. They were laughing again. Always laughing.
The teacher didn't believe me. He made me stand with my hands out. He used the strap. Three times. My palms bled.
I didn't cry.
After, they said I wasn't allowed to write letters anymore. Not until I "earn back the privilege." I asked when that would be and they didn't answer.
So this might be my last letter for a while.
But if you ever read this, please remember—I didn't lie. I didn't steal. I was good. I tried.
I miss you more than anything.
Love, Lou
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(There were no more letters for a long, long time.)