A chorus of sound filled the air. Morning noises rose amidst the sound of teenagers filing in line for their morning routines. Only seven kids lived in her group home at that time, soon to be six.

She hated it there. She hated every bit of it, from the fake name they used for her to the tasteless food they tried to shove down her throat. She could feel her ribs, and stomaching bites of anything became harder and harder. She felt hunger, but, presented with the average industrialized food that her school and group home served; she couldn’t tolerate it. Most food smelled terrible, tasted worse, and sat in her stomach like lead for hours.

“Katie!” the shouts of a caretaker whose name she equally hadn’t learned, “Lucy? Linda?”- woke her from fretful sleep that morning. She missed her alarm again.

I’m late…

The scents of prepackaged breakfast foods hung in the air, attacking her senses.

Oh, it’s that one again, Seneya thought. But, of course, one or two of them always got her name wrong.

At three years old, they gave her the name ‘Kacie Doe.’ Nobody kept an accurate record of how she had been found. It just said ‘surrendered’ and a date on any and all paperwork. They only documented her tattoos, the ones of wings on her back and the other that they’d had removed. It left a patchy white scar on her shoulder, and a caseworker had once called it a ‘barcode.’ It came off easily with laser treatment, but her wing tattoos… They refused to budge. She liked them, but it made her sad to think that everyone else hated them so badly for her.

The smells of breakfast below made her stomach clench in both hunger and disgust. Nothing sounded good.

She rose from her bed, listening to the plastic of the mattress cover crinkle, the metal of the heavily painted frame creaked in protest.

All of her clothes came from the same distressed dresser, from a single drawer that they had allotted her, despite her lack of roommates and two empty drawers.

She would have a roommate, but Seneya wasn’t a good fit to share with others. She wasn’t a good fit anywhere.

“Kacie!? Do I look like a Kacie?” She ranted to herself as she went about her morning wait in line for the showers.

“You sound like a Seneya,” the voice, ever so tiny, ever so distant, whispered into her ear from an unseen source. Hairs rose on the back of her neck, and she took a deep breath to quell the rising agitation that the voice gave her. She pursed her lips and steeled her jaw.

She absolutely refused to respond to it. The fine line between sanity and insanity, to her, was acknowledging the unreal. This was most certainly unreal.

“Ah, little star, so quiet. Did you know that’s what your name means, little star?”

She didn’t, but her silence spoke volumes. She knew from the moment she heard the voice in her ear whisper the name that it was hers, something that she owned. She had nothing in this world that truly belonged to her but that one thing, that name. They couldn’t take that away from her, no matter how many times she moved.

She made a humming noise in her throat to acknowledge it spoke.

“Such a talkative creature today. Are we on speaking terms again?” The voice spoke in misty whispers and shivers that echoed right at her ear. Nobody else seemed to notice.

She stepped forward into the shower once the occupant slipped out.

The bathroom had been quite lovely at one point, then redone and industrialized a few times over the years. The spackled floor leaned into a floor drain that contained more life in it than the entire house and carried the overflow from the shower that they were advised to, if they had them, always wear flip flops in. Seneya didn’t know where to get flip-flops but stepped into the mismatched tiled cell all the same.

She turned the water on with a tight grinding squeak, giving it a moment to rattle up the pipes before drooling free and gaining pressure. She stepped in and eyed the row of dispensers there for them. They used to have a shampoo and body wash combo in one and conditioner in the other. Now they both had an all-in-one shampoo, conditioner, and body wash combo that filled them both. Seneya avoided using it as often as possible. It dried her skin out and left an obnoxious industrialized scent clinging to her for days.

“We’re not staying here any longer, are we?” the voice pleaded in her ear. “It’s nearly too late.”

She allowed the lukewarm flow to beat down over her body, shaking her her head and giving a soft noise of dissent.

Her back ached, throbbing to some strange pulse that buzzed in her. Every few minutes, sometimes hours, a shocking jolt seared through her back.

“Good. I don’t think I have to tell you—” The voice started.

“That I’m dying,” Seneya whispered.

The voice’s sudden silence said all she needed.

Foster homes were nightmares at the best of times, full of strange people, each with bright, happy eyes that faded to scowls the moment the caseworker left.

There were chores and heavy-handed rules at every home, and no matter how well Seneya performed, nobody remembered to praise her. Of course, the rules differed at every home, but they all had the same meaning: Don’t bother me, don’t speak unless spoken to, and keep your head down.

Kids were just products in an endless mill, another source of income.

With her body wet and somewhat washed, she slumped free of the shower and tugged clothes over her head. She only owned five outfits; it made it easier for her to empty her small drawer and put on a few shirts at the same time without drawing attention. This way, if she lost her bag, she still had clothes.

There was no room for failure.

She strode down worn stairs to the rest of the decaying house below. Paint flicked off beneath her fingertips as bright springtime sun crested over the visible windows. The day started with a perfect balmy morning, dew glistening and sparkling in the untended lawn.

“Kacie! Your food is getting cold,” one of the caretakers called to Seneya.

Huh… She remembered my name.

“Nice.” the voice commented dryly.

Seneya, Kacie to them, never remembered theirs. Instead, she cast her green eyes off as she approached and looked down at reheated frozen waffles.

No matter what method of convection they used to cook the damn things, the center stayed cold. It was just a scientific conundrum and fact that the outside would be rubbery and too hot while the inside remained frozen. A pat of industrialized butter substitute sat defiantly unmelted over the top.

“Oh…waffles… my favorite,” Seneya said flatly, sitting at the end of the table. She shifted, avoiding the other kids while they ate in a frenzy.

The whole process felt barbaric.

One of the girls, Gretta? Seneya wasn’t sure, gave her a cautious glance. Finally, she smiled and batted pleasant brown eyes.

Seneya didn’t dislike her, though she got a little loud at times.

Seneya shifted her glance to the caretaker, Linda, she decided, and watched, waiting until her back turned. Seneya nodded, moved out of the way, and watched as Gretta reached out to snatch her top waffle.

Seneya spattered artificially flavored syrup over the top of the second one, cut it up, and pushed it around to look somewhat eaten. The only thing she tolerated was a tiny glass of orange juice that went down with a small gulp. Her mouth watered, and she savored the lingering taste of it. She wanted more, but they rationed and meagerly portioned meals in group homes. You get what you get, nothing more.

Seneya’s backpack pulled hard against her shoulders, making her muscles ache worse. Every part of her body ached at times, but today it didn’t just ache; it seared. The friction of it against her skin made her eyes water.

She took a deep breath to quell away the pain.

“After you get off the bus at school, go to a few classes and bolt at lunch when everyone’s scattered,” the voice told her. She rolled her eyes, having considered all these things already. Seneya had the intelligence to plan her own escape; the comment from her mind’s peanut gallery went ignored.

-

She climbed onto a yellow loping school bus with ginger footing and glanced about the half-empty seats. The dry-rotted and split vinyl provided its own security, a small secluded space for her to think as the bustling town around them sped by.

She barely noticed the other kids from her home; they didn’t socialize much. Really, they didn’t do anything much together. So Seneya found it easier to ignore them, not that they had any compunctions with that.

The seats beneath her vibrated as warm morning air crept in through dusty windows. Scenery melted past her in blurred streaks and panoramic scenes. Each turn of the bus revealed hypnotic patterns of dancing sunlight that drew her into a lulling rest.

Before she realized it, the bus stopped with hissing air brakes and a decompressing shriek of the door’s hydraulics. The sudden lurch made her slump forward and hit her head on the sharp split fabric. She took a deep breath as her eyes flew open. Seneya didn’t know she had fallen asleep and gathered her things in a few sweeps of her hand before disembarking.

She made her way to her first class of the day. She had a plan, and it didn’t include skipping classes right off the bat, just like the voice said.

Her high school’s marching band danced around and waved flags, doing some kind of fundraiser outside and had people distracted.

Perfect.

The crispy height-of-summer grass surrounding the small courtyard tamped down beneath the feet of curious onlookers that she dodged and wove around to make her way inside. She moved her body with a cautious twist and slide of her step to keep her backpack from hitting anyone, tipping people off. Teachers had been warned to look out for ‘signs.’

The backpacked tipped them off last time.

“Locker first,” she whispered to herself, barely a noise, keeping her head down and feet moving.

“Good idea,” The voice praised, but Seneya only grimaced.

Old chipping linoleum tiles paved a path in the cinderblock building. The floor had what used to be a design, replaced with spare tiles of old colors that no longer matched the scheme, highlighting the halls. They all looked shades of grey next to the garish eye-burning blue they’d painted all the lockers.

She liked her last school better.

Her assigned locker sat on the bottom row. When she stooped to push her bag, shoving with her hip, searing pain shot up between her shoulder blades. Her eyes watered, but she didn’t make a sound.

She had to stay focused.

Her classes came and went. For a good reason, she couldn’t pay attention to anything but the clock. She’d make her next move in an hour and a half, during lunch when she could lose herself in the bustle of the crowd.

Lunch was in ninety minutes, and that’s when she would act. But, for now, she had to suffer through math.

Seneya usually did her homework in math class, but she found it pointless today. Previously, she had a goal of never standing out, and part of never standing out meant she had to turn in her assignments.

She deduced that teachers didn’t bother ‘B’ students. Instead, they raved over A students and hassled D’s and F’s. With a B, she wouldn’t be smart enough to bother or dumb enough to upset anyone.

“Eyes on your prize.”

Seneya hummed to herself in assent, going over the plan in her head.

Her computer class came next. Old whining machines strained at the dusty air. August sun and the creeping heat of the computer heat sinks filled the room with a sleepy and uncomfortable warmth.

The teacher assigned them another vague task of creating some table and emailing it to someone else. She’d done it all before and had no real reason to worry about her lesson for the day. After all, she’d be gone soon.

The teacher droned on about some document tables they would make for probably the fourth time, and Seneya quietly opened a browser. The computer whined and clicked in protest, but nobody seemed to look her way. She searched a few businesses in town that she knew had railroads and found it relatively easy to see which of the lumber yards in town still loaded and shipped by rail. The rails went east for the most part in that area.

“East is good. Once we reach the first few interchanges, we can swap over to get to the Carolinas,” The voice spoke to her urgently.

Seneya hadn’t left the state of Oregon once in her life, and the prospect made her tingle with excitement.

Curious, she moved her cursor to the search bar of the browser. She typed into it, wondering if the strange voice could read. She usually communicated with nods and soft words in private moments. This could change things.

‘Why the Carolinas?’

“Well, I guess this works!” the voice cheered. “The Carolinas because I can find someone to help you, maybe family. Family eventually, for certain, your real family,” the voice promised her. Her eyes narrowed in doubt, and she pursed her lips.

Seneya cleared the browser history and searched a few railway lines, Amtrak schedules, and northbound routes before printing one off. She snatched it from the printer when the lunch bell rang.

“That’s not where we’re going,” The voice said with some alarm. Seneya’s impassive expression didn’t change.

She folded the piece of paper a few times, pulled a pen from the side of her bag, and wrote with a quick flick. She wondered if the voice could see. She knew it didn’t read her thoughts, or it certainly wouldn’t be as friendly to her.

‘The school’s printer logs will show this. It’ll distract them long enough that I don’t get caught like last time.’

“Point made.” The voice went silent.

Seneya grabbed her bigger bag from her locker, rummaged around for her meager savings, less than twenty dollars in pilfered change, and made her way through the hallway. She pretended to be counting quarters in her palm, turning down the hall where the soda machines sat humming ominously.

Fortunately for her, this particular area attracted the odd illicit smoker. The slight odor of it petered about in the air from the cracked door.

She turned to the machine and bought a few bottles of water before slipping them into her bag. Each coin she pushed into the whining recesses of the vending machine changed digital numbers across a small screen that counted down, just like her time here. She stowed the bottles easily in her bag and turned to the back door.

As her luck would have it, someone disconnected the door’s alarm, and she slipped free and out without much notice. She silently thanked the smokers for being so resourceful as she saw the dangling wire with the disconnected sensors taped to one another tucked above the frame. A piece of tucked cardboard in the inside edge of the frame muted the door’s closure. With any luck, she would be free tonight.

In a few minutes, she made it off campus, walking with a purposeful gait and her head held high.

In her experience, people rarely asked questions when you looked like you knew what you were doing. She pulled a light jacket from her bag, slipped it on, and tucked her hair away. She finally agreed that it stood out too much. Seneya thought about dying her hair, but the voice refused.

“Feel free to talk all you want now,” She muttered to herself as she slipped her hands into her pockets. The padding of the extra shirts and the jacket against her back soothed her on some fundamental level. It made the jabbing pains hurt less.

“I can talk when you’re relaxing on a train out of here,” The voice said.

Seneya focused on its sound as she kept her eye on the streets, looking for the nearest intersection with a railroad crossing.

“Should be just after Third street. We can follow that up a mile and be at their distribution docks for the area,” Seneya said to herself, turning down an alley. From there, she started walking behind the buildings, through a row of old businesses and their trash cans.

Aside from garbage trucks, anyone else using this back alley just needed a smoke or a fix.

“Seneya, would you like to learn something beautiful?” The voice asked. The more she listened, the more defined it got. She could almost describe the voice as male now, almost, as it teased at her ears, but something about it felt too soft.

“Sure,” she said as she headed off in the same direction, north to hit the crossroads. The road beneath her feet buckled with uneven pavement.

She squinted up ahead and saw the recessed tracks across the dilapidated crossing. She glanced left and right before striking over coarse gravel to walk West through its path, away from their end goal, but to an area where she could see the long form of a waiting train idling as dockworkers loaded pallets.

Bingo.

Woods bordered the tracks on either side until a block before the loading company’s warehouse. Forest covered the left, and the business faced the right. A field lay beyond a line of trees, separating the industrial area from a new housing development of cookie-cutter houses, partially obscured by summer foliage.

She easily took to the undergrowth with meandering steps, careful of roots and the thorny vines of wild blackberries that had taken over. Still-ripe remnants of the fruit clung desperately to the bushes as she passed them. She reached out and plucked them one by one, savoring their sweetness as the fat seeds popped against her strange teeth.

Seneya washed her tongue over her canines to clear the remnants and revealed longer-than-average teeth, framed on each side by longer premolars and lateral incisors. It didn’t look unnatural in her mouth, quite the opposite. The shape of her mouth complimented them, and her lips hid them well. Her bottom teeth held a flattering shape, and she could remember them being sharper as a child, cutting her lips at times. Her dentist had blunted them a bit, and she’d never liked that.

She reached for another wild blackberry as her stomach growled with desire. It would be a while on the train, and she had plenty of time. She had at least an hour before she had to start even looking at vulnerable cars.

“Where I’m taking you. This man, he doesn’t speak English like you do, not all the time,” The voice said cautiously as she chewed over another handful of the rich fruit.

She stopped chewing for a moment and looked up, almost as if she expected to see something right there next to her; a question played over her face as a ‘hmm?’ escaped her full, now purple, lips.

When she heard what the voice said next, she swallowed hard, an unchewed berry catching at her throat for a moment before she choked a cough free.

The words the voice said weren’t English, nor any language she had heard before. Her eyes went wide, and a joyous delight suffused her mind. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She didn’t know why, but behind the words, she could hear the barest hint of song and music, and it made her heart clench with longing. They didn’t even sound like words, but she knew they had meaning tickling at the back of her mind.

“Teach me,” Seneya said, the word a plea on her dripping lips, the first firm words she’d spoken in a long time.

“In time. You know them already, so I will remind you. Enjoy your meal and wait for opportunity.”

Seneya did, gathering as many as she could before her jaunt through the woods lined her up with the switching tracks and waiting train. At least a hundred cars stretched across tracks, leading to an open one with displays of pallets and barrels of unknown items packed from front to back. She surveyed her options and found that she might have a better bet as she neared some of the cars in the back loaded with tightly bound pallets of thinly sliced wood veneer.

She saw one still being loaded and watched as they piled the slabs in one by one. The tired workers started checking their watches every few moments, signaling either a break or a shift change coming up.

On the opposite side of the loading area, someone left a door slightly ajar. Seneya sized it up, analyzing the pattern to the stacks as best as she could from afar. When loading, it left a half-pallet-sized ‘hallway’ of sorts down the center and a few feet of space atop. Veneer was valuable stuff in full pallets like this.

“Think I’m going to get overheated?” She muttered to herself, watching forklift drivers start pulling in their lifts for the evening. She had a few minutes gap while they changed.

She bolted for the cart, pulled the slat of the door open with a tug, and managed to get the door’s gap big enough to accommodate her. Solid wood greeted her, and she studied the car for a moment. A metal rail with rungs went up the side.

She climbed onto the rails, shoved her bag in atop the wood, and managed to grab the top of the car to shimmy her way over. The rusted metal bit at her fingers, and she slid in with ease, closing the door behind her.

She settled in with a deep breath, inhaling the scent of fresh wood.

“Have you ever gotten overheated before?”

She thought about it, and she hadn’t. She shook her head lightly.

“Then you’re probably good, little one.” She let the slight pass. Seneya stood a good deal taller than most people.

Little is something I’ve never been called.

The sun-warmed wood of the veneer flexed beneath her like sheets of firm cardboard. The hard surface pressed into her front as she lay on her belly and pulled her pack up under her chin. The blackberries settled so nicely in her stomach as she closed her eyes and sighed. Fortunately, the car sat in a mote of shade, making the inside comfortably warm. The warmth lulled her into a gentle sleep

Despite the loud clacks of the train going into gear and cars being shut, the voice spoke kindly to her, and she could hear it in her dream. It was not English that came to her, but rather the language with the song in it. Her eyes closed tighter, a slight smile playing over her full lips as she understood.

Tears of gratefulness welled at the corners of her eyes.

“I’ll tell you a story.”

“Please,” Seneya said, nestling in to wallow in the most relief she’d ever felt.

Thousands of years ago, in a land of light and joy there, existed a great being, a creator, they called themselves.

They existed in the eternal grey, the void, and the drone.

They plucked from the grey, the dark, and the light.

They plucked from the void the substance and insubstantial.

From the substance, they built a world, a place they would call home—cerrai.

They built themselves a palace of light and sat themselves upon a throne to stare at the darkness.

In the emptiness from empathy, they created love and loneliness.

There was only loneliness with nothing to love, and they made from the substance creatures as themself.

They called them their children, the Cerraien, meaning of their world, each split into two, daughter and son.

Their children called their creator father and mother.

Being born of their mind and molded by their hands, they were good for a time.

Every moment the loneliness came, they created more of their kind, split son from daughter.

And in time, they were lonely again.

From the drone of the world, they created sound and silence.

From the sound, they made song.

From the song, came the first chaos, discordance, and words.

The creator, entertained for the first time in so long, made new Cerraien in their image, closer to him and filled with the song.

He called them the Seraphim, each blessed with two great sets of wings and a tail to mark them.

He filled each of them with the chaos of music, the song of creation, and commanded that they sing.

As they were chaos, their song begat thought, and thought begat independence and independence the first question.

“Why?”

“Because I can!” they said, “Because I must.”

In the chorus of the song they sang, the creator found from the nothingness of his mind both inspiration and emptiness to fill.

And in this emptiness, he wrought a book.

He made the pages from the earth and ink from the skies.

From their own great wings, they plucked a feather, dipped it into the stars, and wrote the world into being.

The Cerraien and the Seraphim were abandoned.

From the seraphim stood the blackest of feathered brethren, who sang the thrum of their chorus and called himself Vrahe, of the void, for the void was part of him.

From the lightest of their feathered brethren, with wings of silver, who sang the melody of their song, stood Sai, of the starlight, as she was of the silver that shone from the light onto the darkness.

And in the crowds of the Cerraien stood the oldest of them, a creature born of fire when none knew else. He remembered true darkness.

He remembered silence.

He remembered the void before it had a name.

“Our master has abandoned us, pulled themselves into this new world that has always known song and light. We were here when there was silence.

We were here when there was greyness.

We were here when nothing else was.

We deserve this world too!”

Said Acryan, of bitterness and the uncounted first.

“Our master has heard our song and saw fit to make wonderful things in our image, inspired by our tumult to make all things great.” Said Sai of the starlight.

Vrahe of the void stood and declared that they must take that which the creator had abandoned him for. His pain was great, and the Cerraien listened. The thrum of a song, the beat, and drone often command far more than the melody does, and as such, the Cerraien children chorused!

They, too, wanted to take this world for themselves, to know a world that had never known the empty grey and the drone.

They, creatures of light, dark, sound, and silence, marched upon the creator’s throne, finding him absent.

A voice spoke to the Seraphim, a son of the creator’s first made. He who had called himself Acryan.

“Lovely Sai, surely you agree with Vrahe! Anyone can see we’re abandoned.”

Acryan looked upon Sai with favor.

“We should speak to the creator! I would not abandon that which has made me.”

Her voice was soft, and despite her best efforts, Acryan urged the people. He was seduced by Vrahe’s charm.

In abject defiance, they rallied themselves to write their own names upon pages of the book, reminding the creator that they were there first, that they too deserved this.

Each pulled a feather from their own wings and wrote their names in blood, blood that at that time was ink, for all the creator wrote into existence was the ink of stars and blackness.

Anything upon the page of the book was destined to be in the book, and at that, their ink sealed them away.

Sai pleaded each one by one not to sign their name, but her song went unheard.

When finally the creator returned to his throne, he found his choir of Seraphim missing two.

Of his Cerraien, many had left him.

His choir was incomplete.

Vrahe was gone.

The pages of the book were wrought with their names.

Sai sat knelt at the throne, tears in her eyes, and they spilled onto her as diamonds.

When they looked at the book and knew what had been done, the creator closed the book and promised that they’d never come home and swore that they would write their children’s suffering on every page.

Sai pleaded their ignorance, that they felt abandoned. She pleaded in their favor, apologized for their misdeeds, and offered upon herself to take whatever anger they had to give in exchange to make them whole once more. She would let her shine go dark for an eternity, destroying that which they favored rather than lose any of the creator’s lesser creations.

She was their melody, their favored of the choir. Their curse from their lips was true, as all things the creator spoke were.

From their wing, the creator plucked a great plume.

“May this be a sword,” they said, and it was.

They plucked another and held it high, “May this be your crown.” And it was.

The creator gave the sword and crown to Sai, their gentle melody.

“Sign your name in my book with my own feather. I’ll bless you with this but curse you in other ways. You shall live and die and live again, each life a test to lead them back home. Conquer the uncounted one, and you shall have the people. Bring the void to you and fill it. Once these things are done, you can bring my children home. Only then will they be healed.”

The melody parted ways with the creator, wrote her name in the book, her sigil, and found herself amidst her suffering people in the Syraied planes, meaning the bane of Cerrai.

The Cerraien split themselves in sorrow and rage, from void to the starlight.

Vrahe took his people and parted ways.

What was left were dissenters and those full of regret.

Sai took to herself for a husband, Acryan, subduing him in the ways only a daughter could a son, as a wife and husband.

Their people became the Anael, the sorrow, and from them bore the Phoenix, their fire.

From Vrahe came the Acerrai, meaning ‘from our homeland.’

Now we are here in this book, in your chapter of your story.

“How will your ink be measured, Seneya?”

Without waking, she spoke. “Like anyone else’s.” Her lips formed whispering syllables, not in English, but in the musical tongue, the words tender and sweet in her mouth like those blackberries.