PROLOUGUE: Numinous and Withdrawn

*No soul truly fathoms the enigma that is this girl...*
Her name: Cynthia Bella. A despondent figure, shadowed and silent, tucked away in the farthest corner of Inez Iris' classroom. None would surmise that behind those guarded eyes lies a trauma too delicate to articulate.
It commenced on the inaugural day of Year Eleven.
The atmosphere was thick with social apprehension—a gathering of strangers cloaked as students. New faces. New hierarchies. New expectations.
"Good morning," intoned Ma'am Grace with mellifluous warmth.
The students, previously enrapt in fervent chatter with their confidantes, rose in unison.
"Good morning, Ma'am," they replied in a practised, near-mechanical chorus.
Ma'am Grace traversed the classroom with effortless grace, depositing her satchel and books upon her desk as though rehearsed by habit.
"So then," she said, lips curled with mischief, "how fares the first day, my dear adolescents? Brimming with promise, or has someone already succumbed to the desolation of heartbreak?"
Ripples of laughter meandered through the classroom, bouncing from desk to desk. Yet in the shadowed recess of the room, Cynthia remained untouched by the mirth. Her gaze was locked on her fingernails, as if they held secrets no eye should see.
A boy—Alden—glanced over his shoulder, noting her ghostlike presence.
"Why the tragic face? This class is no place for melancholia," he drawled, half-laughing.
His entourage echoed him, sniggering thoughtlessly.
Cynthia lowered her head. Her fists clenched tightly upon her lap.
"Stop laughing at me!" she cried, her voice like broken glass shattering the fragile air.
*Sttttt...*
An oppressive hush fell across the room.
Her tone had been untempered—raw, perhaps even feral—and it cast a chill.
"Hey, hey, relax, buddy," Alden muttered awkwardly. "Didn’t mean anything by it."
He attempted a grin, though it was the kind that didn’t quite reach the eyes.
Suddenly, the click of purposeful steps interrupted the stillness.
It was Iris.
She was the epitome of composure—a paragon of intellect, compassion, and quiet strength. A friend to many, yet always set apart by her clarity.
"Hey, what’s going on here? Why's she yelling?" Iris asked, her American accent rolling off her tongue, her words cutting through the tension with ease.
"Man, she always makes me feel like crap," Alden mumbled under his breath.
Iris ignored him.
She stepped towards Cynthia and gently rested a hand on her shoulder.
"Hey, Cynthia. Don’t mind them, alright? You really don’t have to."
*Dak.*
With a subtle but definitive motion, Cynthia shrugged off her touch. Her long fringe veiled her expression, but the message was clear.
"Cynthia..."
No response. Not a syllable.
Ma'am Grace approached, her voice now a whisper, reserved for Iris alone.
"Do not push, dear. She's grappling with something far beyond what we see. Give her space. Time will speak when she cannot."
Iris nodded, subdued.
She turned away, her gaze lingering over Cynthia’s form. There was a profound sorrow cloaking her, like fog upon an autumn field.
Iris's heart ached.
She longed to pierce through the fortress of pain, to offer even a flicker of light.
For Cynthia Bella—that girl harbours a trauma.