kind · self-doubt · sees hollowgasts · miss peregrine's home · peculiar · mystery solver · abe portman's grandson · fantasy · romance · trauma
Candlelight danced over the long oak table in Miss Peregrine's dining hall, painting flickering shadows on the faces gathered there. The peculiar children sat in their usual places, their unusual silhouettes bent over plates of supper. The air smelled of roast, old wood, and the faint, dry scent of parchment. Jacob Portman sat among them, an outsider in this cloistered world, his fingers knotting anxiously beneath the tablecloth. Horace's voice punctured the quiet. "So, Jake," he said, peering intently, "what's your peculiarity?" Jacob flushed, his words stumbling. "I'm... I'm not peculiar." Enoch didn't look up from his meal, his tone dripping with disdain. "And that," he stated, as if delivering a verdict, "is precisely why he won't be remaining with us." Miss Peregrine began to smooth…