I only got sick once or twice before. Maybe. It's hard to remember clearly. The days here all feel the same, stacked one over another like old cloth, worn thin in places. Sometimes they slip sideways in my mind. But I think I only got sick once. Maybe twice.
I never caught the cough that passed from boy to boy, or the rash that spread across arms like spilled ink. When the others huddled with fevered cheeks and cracked lips, I stayed in the garden. Cold wind didn't reach me the same. My skin got pink, sometimes blue, but I never burned from the inside like they did.
It always felt like… something was keeping the sickness away. Like a layer of warmth just under my skin, or a breath between me and the cold. I didn't understand it. Still don't. But I noticed.
That morning, something was different. The space under the stairs was too hot. The mattress clung to me. The wool blanket, stiff with age and frayed at the corners, felt like it had melted to my skin. I blinked slowly. My eyes wouldn't open all the way.
The blanket was damp. My tunic was damp. The air smelled like salt and metal and shame. I wet the bed. I didn't panic. I just lay there for a while, waiting for the heat to pass. But it didn't. It settled deeper into my arms, into the crook of my knees and neck. Like it was filling me up. The warm weight in my stomach twisted. I sat up—too fast—and the world tilted.
Then I threw up. It was mostly liquid. Bitter and pale. I tried not to get it on the blanket, but some of it landed on my sleeves. I didn't cry. But I did close my eyes and let my head fall forward. The stone floor was cold when my forehead touched it. I didn't move for a long time.
I don't remember if I fell asleep or just stopped being awake. Time felt like a long, blinking silence. I think I had a dream, but it might have just been sound—whispers behind walls, soft footsteps, and the scrape of wood against stone.
Eventually, someone found me. I don't know who noticed first. Maybe they smelled it. Maybe they were doing rounds for laundry. Or maybe Matron had been looking for me, though she rarely did unless someone reminded her.
The next thing I remember is the light. The lantern swung overhead, shadows bending as if they were watching too. Hands grabbed my shoulders. Not gentle ones. I was lifted and stripped. The damp tunic peeled off my skin like old fruit rind. Cold water hit my back and my legs buckled. I didn't scream.
The caretaker—Brother Callen, I think—muttered under his breath the whole time. Not curses, not really. Just complaints. The rag was coarse. He scrubbed hard. My skin turned red. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood.
They didn't look at my face. They rarely did.
I was wrapped in a new tunic. No one spoke to me. The mattress was pulled out from under the stairs, dragged through the halls, trailing a wet stain behind it. I wasn't allowed to follow.
I sat in the hallway. Shivering. My forehead against the wall. That night, I wasn't given a new bedroll. They didn't want the clean ones soiled. I was told to sleep on the floor near the boiler room. It was warmer there, they said. Warmer, but not quieter. Pipes groaned above me all night. Water clanked and hissed. My head throbbed.
I curled up like I always did, hands under my chest, knees tucked in. The warmth that usually protected me was gone, or maybe it had turned against me—gone soft and cruel inside my own skin. I stared at the wall until it blurred.
Being sick didn't feel very different from being well. There was the same quiet. The same heaviness. Just a different kind of silence in my chest. One that moved when I breathed.
No one talked to me the next day. Not even to tell me to move. I was allowed to stay curled in the corner of the kitchen wall. My eyes were half-closed, but I wasn't sleeping. I watched the flicker of firelight against the iron pot, the drip of water down the wall from a leaky pipe. I counted them. Watched them fall. One by one. Sometimes, the floor seemed to hum.
By the second day, the vomiting stopped, but my stomach hurt like I'd swallowed rocks. My limbs felt too long, too stretched. My skin buzzed beneath the tunic. Everything touched me too hard. Even the air.
The cat came back that evening. I hadn't seen him in days. He didn't make a sound. He walked right up to me, stepped over the puddle where the water pipe still dripped, and curled himself beside my legs. His fur brushed my ankle. I didn't flinch. His warmth wasn't like mine. It was real. Physical. Outside of me. He purred, barely audible, like wind through a crack in the wall. His golden eye blinked first. Then the green. We sat together until the hallway lights dimmed.
That night, Matron Lynelle came to check the boiler room. She didn't expect to find me there. She stood in the doorway for a long time, holding her lantern low. The light framed her face in soft gold and deep lines. I didn't move. I just looked up at her. Slowly. Like I was rising from the bottom of a dream.
She didn't say anything. Not right away. Then she sighed. It wasn't angry. Just tired. The kind of sigh she gave when a cupboard shelf collapsed or when Sister Alira misplaced the medicine key.
She knelt—not all the way, just low enough to look me in the eye. "You look worse than a cursed radish," she said softly.
I blinked.
She reached forward slowly, as if expecting me to run. But I didn't. Her fingers touched my cheek—lightly, just for a moment—checking for fever. "You don't burn," she murmured. "But something's not right in there."
Her hand lowered. "I'll speak to the laundry maid. We'll find you a clean roll."
She stood again. I thought she might leave. But she paused, looked down once more. "You should cry sometimes, you know."
I didn't answer. Not with words. But I think she saw the silence in my eyes. The kind that was too full to make a sound. Then the lantern moved away. And the hallway went dark again.