Page 1 of Mourning Wings (Whitmore Legacy #1)

PROLOGUE

VALERIA

12 YEARS OLD

I wrap my sweater tighter around my shoulders as I wander in the crisp autumn air. My breath comes out in small puffs, visible in the cold, the leaves crunching beneath my feet.

The orphanage, which also serves as my school, looms behind me, casting long shadows over the garden. The building is ancient, maybe centuries old. My heart beats a little faster as I glance back at the towering spires that seem to pierce the gray sky.

I walk down the path to the secluded area where I go to quiet my thoughts.

The walls are cold and rough under my fingertips, sending a chill through my hand as I trail them along the stone. The creeping ivy, now a deep red with the season, scratches against my palm. Narrow , arched windows line the sides, their glass panes cloudy and cracked. A tightness forms in my chest, and I remind myself to breathe.

This place has been my home for as long as I can remember.

I lost my parents in a home invasion when I was just a toddler. I don’t remember much, just vague images that don’t quite fit together. From what I was told, no family members came forward to take me in. Even now, it’s hard to make sense of it, knowing that no one came for me—no parent, no relative. It makes me feel as if I was forgotten, like I didn’t matter enough to anyone.

That’s why I love going to the hidden part of the forest. It’s my escape, a place where I can be with myself, away from the other children and the noise of the orphanage.

Out there, I don’t have to pretend or worry about being forgotten again. The trees don’t judge, and the quiet feels like a comforting embrace. It’s the only place where I feel a sense of peace, where I can breathe without the weight of everything pressing down on me.

I continue down the path until I see the opening to my favorite spot.

The wind rustles in my hair, causing strands to temporarily blind me. I brush them from my face as I cross the tight entryway of branches. When I open my eyes, I see her.

Camila . The new girl.

She’s different from the other kids—quiet, withdrawn, carrying an air of deep sadness and trauma that most of us understand.

My best friend, Isabel , took it upon herself to be the girl’s companion. She appointed herself the unofficial orphanage tour guide, chattering endlessly in her ear as she showed her around. Isabel was determined to break through her shell, to make her smile.

At first, the girl remained distant, barely acknowledging her presence, but Isabel persisted, undeterred by her calm demeanor. She found ways to involve her in games and activities, always by her side, offering a stream of conversation even if the girl never responded.

Slowly , almost imperceptibly, Camila began to thaw. She started to follow Isabel , observing her antics with a faint hint of amusement in her eyes. Though she never uttered a word, her silent presence spoke volumes.

The only thing that seemed to catch her attention were butterflies.

I move quietly through the dense overgrowth. As I get closer, I can see her more clearly, sitting cross-legged on the lush green grass. She’s humming softly to herself, the sound almost hypnotic. I pause for a moment, my breath catching in my throat. There’s something about Camila that feels...different. Then again, it always has.

I step forward, slower this time, careful not to break the spell. My fingers brush against the rough bark of a tree as I steady myself. She still hasn’t noticed me, and I wonder if she can feel my presence, if the hairs on the back of her neck are standing up like mine.

Surrounding her are fluttering butterflies of various colors, dancing around her like confetti caught in a breeze. She watches the delicate creatures with an intensity that borders on admiration.

Intrigued by this enchanting sight, I approach quietly, careful not to startle her or the butterflies.

I catch snippets of soft, whispered words seemingly meant for the butterflies alone. I gasp under my breath; it’s the first time I’ve heard any sound come out of her mouth.

I’m mesmerized by the scene before me. Butterflies , usually so elusive and fleeting, found a companion in Camila . They flit around her, landing briefly on her outstretched fingers or in her hair, as if responding to her unspoken commands. It’s as though she possesses a secret language only they understand.

Curiosity getting the better of me, I step closer, close enough to see the strands of her blonde hair catching in the light, close enough to notice the way her shoulders rise and fall with each breath.

A twig snaps under my foot, and she tenses, her humming cutting off abruptly. Her head turns slightly, just enough for me to see the edge of her profile, and I freeze, waiting for her next move.

My heart pounds in my chest, and I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. The forest seems to hold its breath along with me, the sounds of life fading into the background. I take one last step, then another, until I’m standing right behind Camila . I can see the way her hands curl into fists, her knuckles white, but she doesn’t turn around.

“ Hi .”

She doesn’t respond.

I settle down beside her, the grass cool against my legs. She glances at me briefly before returning her attention to the butterflies, and I watch in silence.

There’s a tranquility in her presence that washes over me.

When she finally speaks, her voice is soft, almost fragile. “ Hi .”