Every Holy Season, boxes came from the Church. Donor boxes, they were called—though we didn't know who donated. The caretakers said it came from "the people in the village," like they were some faceless cloud of kindness that gathered itself once a year, just long enough to drop off bread and mittens and then vanish again.
We never saw them. But the boxes came, anyway. This year, there were four. Two with food, one with folded clothes, and the last one full of toys and books. The older kids got loud when that one opened. Fingers reached too fast. Voices rose. Everything smelled like dust and cinnamon.
I didn't move at first. I waited until most of it had been picked over. That's when I found it—a purple bunny plush, tucked under a pile of cracked spinning tops and wooden dolls with flaking paint. One of its button eyes was missing. The stitching at the ear was loose, and one leg was shorter than the other. But it was soft.
I held it up to show Evelune, who sat quietly beside me. Her eyes locked on it the moment she saw the color. Purple. Faded, but still bright compared to the rest of the gray around us. She didn't reach for it. Just stared. So I tucked it under her arm and watched how her fingers curled around it slowly. That's how I knew it was hers.
I took the bunny. And a book. A small spelling primer, its cover scuffed and one corner bent. Someone had written their name on the inside flap years ago in large, shaky letters. I traced them with my thumb but didn't try to read them. The book was meant to teach words, not hold them.
I slipped both the toy and the book under my blanket and brought them back to our place—under the East stairs. No one stopped me. No one asked. They never did.
In the days that followed, I began to read from the book. Not aloud—just silently, with Evelune curled in my lap and the plush rabbit tucked between us. I would turn the pages slowly, tracing letters with my finger. "A" was an apple. "B" was a bird. The drawings were old and faded, but still there.
Evelune would stare at the pages as if they made sense to her without sound. Sometimes I would point at something—a picture of a cat, or a boot, or a ball—and she would look at it, then at me. We didn't speak, but I could feel her understanding beginning to bloom in the quiet between us.
Once the light started to fade and the words on the page became too hard to see, I began teaching her something else. Walking. Her legs were stronger now, no longer curled all the time or limp with sleep. She could stand if I helped her, both hands gripping mine like branches. The first time I let go, she took two steps before falling forward into my chest. She didn't cry. Just blinked, surprised.
The next night, she made it four steps. Then three. Then five. Then fell. And every time, I caught her before she hit the floor. We made a game of it, even if no one else would've called it that.
I would hold the plush bunny in one hand and take a few steps back. She would look at me, eyes wide and focused, then push herself up with her palms and wobble forward, arms stretched stiffly in front of her like sleepwalkers in the stories the older kids whispered at night. She never smiled when she walked. Never laughed.
The rest of the orphanage kept moving around us. Children grew louder, clumsier, sleepier. The Holy Season meant singing rehearsals, longer prayer sessions, candle blessings, and fire safety lectures. Decorations were hung in the front hall—faded sunburst streamers, hand-colored paper lanterns, and chipped wooden stars.
But under the stairs, it was always just the two of us. Bunny. Book. Blanket. Steps.
One evening, Sister Alira passed by as Evelune stumbled into my arms again. I caught her like always. Alira slowed. Watched for a moment longer than I liked. Her eyes narrowed—not cruel, just confused, maybe curious.
"She's too young to walk properly," she said.
I said nothing.
Evelune held the bunny tighter. Alira lingered one more second, then walked away.
That night, I turned the page to the letter "M." Moon. Mouse. Mirror. I pointed to each. Evelune stared. Her thumb brushed the edge of the page, slow and careful. I thought maybe, if she stayed long enough, we could reach Z together.
The snow outside thickened. The garden had disappeared days ago. The fence was a ghost now, barely visible through the frost. The cherry tree stood like a frozen spine in the wind, unmoving. The sky had turned colorless. The world was soft and cold and quiet. But under the stairs, Evelune stood for seven steps before falling. I caught her. And we tried again.