A sleek black car pulled up in front of the Rosewood Orphanage, the tires crunching softly over the gravel. The door opened, and a woman stepped out—Isara, graceful in her long coat, followed by her husband, Orlan, tall and composed. Between them stood a small girl—Meria, just ten years old, clinging gently to her mother's sleeve.
Meria frowned, tugging at her mother's hand as they stepped out of the car. "Why are we here, Mom?"
Isara looked down at her, her expression calm and warm. "We're here to adopt someone, sweetheart."
Meria's face scrunched up. "But why? I don't want anyone else. I just want it to be the three of us—you, me, and Dad."
Isara knelt to meet her daughter's eyes, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I know, love. But sometimes… family isn't just the people we're born to. It's the ones we open our hearts to."
Meria's lips pressed into a pout, uncertainty flickering in her eyes.
Isara smiled softly. "You'll understand one day. Sometimes, the people we choose… end up meaning just as much."
Together, the three stepped through the iron gate and into the warm, timeworn halls of the orphanage. The building carried the scent of old paper, faded paint, and a trace of something sweet—perhaps bread baking in a distant kitchen. The air was thick with memory, as if the walls themselves had witnessed a hundred quiet goodbyes.
A woman in her sixties, wearing a cardigan patched at the elbows and a name tag that read Mrs. Elwen, greeted them at the door. Her smile was soft, but tinged with exhaustion—the kind of weariness that comes from years of caring too deeply for too many.
"Welcome," she said, her voice warm and hushed, as if afraid to disturb the peace. "What brings you to us today?"
"We're here to adopt," Orlan replied, his tone gentle yet steady. "We'd appreciate it if you could show us around."
Mrs. Elwen nodded. "Of course. Please, come this way."
As they walked, children began to notice the visitors. A flurry of young faces peeked from doorways and stairwells, eyes wide with curiosity and hope. Some rushed over, giggling and waving.
"Hello, Uncle! Hello, Auntie!" they called, clinging to Meria's arms and Orlan's coat. One boy held out a crayon drawing as if it were a treasure.
Isara smiled warmly and knelt to greet them, while Meria stood stiffly, watching with a mix of confusion and guarded interest.
But Orlan's attention drifted—drawn by something else.
Near the far end of the room, sitting alone by a window stained with afternoon light, was a girl.
She had long, jet-black hair that shimmered like ink in water, and eyes of quiet violet, as if dusk itself had taken root in them. She sat with her back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap, gazing outside as though the world beyond the glass held something she was waiting for.
She didn't turn when the others laughed.
She didn't move when the caretaker called out names.
She was still.
Apart.
Orlan's gaze lingered. There was something about her—something unspoken, something that made the noise of the room fade into a kind of silence.
"Who's that girl?" he asked quietly, motioning toward the window.
Mrs. Elwen followed his gaze and softened. "That's Sofia. Eight years old. Been here since she was four. She's… different."
Before Orlan could speak another word, the girl turned toward him, her expression unreadable, but her eyes sharp with something beyond her years.
"But before you say anything, Uncle…" Her voice was soft but steady, each word deliberate. "I don't want to be adopted."
The words stopped Orlan mid-step. He blinked, taken aback—not by rudeness, but by the quiet conviction wrapped around her sentence like armor.
"Oh?" he asked gently, crouching slightly to meet her at eye level. "And why is that?"
She looked out the window for a moment, where the late afternoon sun spilled gold over the orphanage floor. Then, without hesitation, she pointed across the room to a corner where a boy stood alone. His gray hair caught the sunlight, a muted halo around his head. He didn't play with the other children. He didn't even look their way.
"There's a boy over there," she said. "With gray hair. His name is Lumis."
Orlan followed her gaze, watching the boy for a moment. The child stood with a kind of fragile stillness, his arms wrapped around himself like he was trying to keep from falling apart.
The girl's voice softened, but her words held firm. "Please… adopt him instead of me."
Orlan looked back at her. Something about her presence—the calm authority, the way she set aside her own chance at a home—spoke louder than her words. She was only eight, but she carried herself like someone who'd already made peace with loneliness.
"Why him?" he asked quietly.
She didn't hesitate.
"Because he needs it more than I do."
"You're different from the others," Orlan murmured, almost to himself, still watching her with quiet awe.
"I know," the girl replied simply—without pride, without sadness. Just truth.
There was nothing more to say.
Without another word, Orlan turned and made his way across the room toward the boy standing alone.
The other children's laughter faded into silence as he crouched down before him, careful not to intrude too suddenly on the fragile stillness that wrapped around the child like a second skin.
"Lumis," Orlan said gently, his voice as soft as falling dust. "Would it be alright… if we became your new family? Your new parents?"
But Lumis didn't speak.
He didn't even blink.
His gaze stayed locked on the place where Sofia had stood only moments ago—as if some part of him couldn't accept she had stepped away.
And then—he felt her.
Then she came to his side, barefoot on the creaking wooden floor—each step light, like a whisper in a quiet room. The air seemed to hold its breath around her. Her violet eyes, gentle and luminous, looked at him not with pity, but with something far softer—something like goodbye.
She knelt beside him, her presence a quiet warmth.
"Will you miss me, Lumis?" she asked, her voice barely more than a breath.
He didn't reply at first.
His lips trembled, but no words came. His eyes remained fixed on the floor, as if looking anywhere else would shatter the fragile stillness between them. His fists were clenched at his sides, white-knuckled, his shoulders tense with everything he wasn't saying.
But then, without warning, Lumis's small body trembled—and he threw his arms around Sofia.
Tears spilled down his cheeks as he buried his face against her.
"I'll miss you…" he whispered, voice breaking. "Every moment I spent with you… I'll remember all of it."
His grip tightened, as if letting go would shatter something inside him.
Sofia stood still, her violet eyes wide—then slowly, gently, she hugged him back.
Neither of them said another word.
They didn't need to.
A Few Days Later…
The sky was pale with morning mist as the car rolled gently to a stop in front of a quiet countryside home surrounded by tall pine trees and a wide, open yard. For most children, it would feel like a dream—a real home. But Lumis sat silently in the back seat, pressed against the window, staring out as if it were just another place to be left behind.
Meria, seated beside him, cast occasional glances his way—curious, skeptical, unsure.
He hadn't said a word since they left the orphanage.
Isara opened the door. "We're here," she said, her voice bright.
Lumis didn't move until Orlan opened his side of the door. "Come on, son. This is home now."
Home.
The word sounded foreign. Too good to be real. Too dangerous to believe.
Still, he stepped out of the car and followed the family toward the house.
Inside, the air was warm, filled with the scent of fresh bread and something gently sweet—vanilla, maybe. A fireplace crackled in the living room. Pictures lined the hallway, soft lights glowing from lamps. It was quiet here—not like the orphanage's restless buzz.
Isara took Lumis's small duffel bag and showed him to his room.
It was modest, but clean. A bed, a desk, and a small bookshelf already half-filled with children's stories. A window overlooked the woods.
Meria peeked into the room, arms folded.
"You don't talk much," she said bluntly.
Lumis didn't respond. He just stared at the books.
She stepped inside anyway.
"…Sofia's the one who told you to come with us, right?"
That caught his attention. He looked at her for the first time.
"I don't know why she said that," Meria added, softer now. "But… she looked like someone important. Even though she was just a kid."
Lumis looked back down. "She is important."
Meria tilted her head. "Was she your sister?"
He shook his head. "…No."
"Then why'd you listen to her?"
Lumis looked out the window. The woods whispered in the breeze.
"Because she saw me… when no one else did."
Meria didn't know how to respond to that. But she didn't press.
Instead, she walked to the desk, grabbed a book, and tossed it onto the bed.
"Mom says we're going to school together once you're settled in. Try not to be too weird."
And with that, she left.
Lumis stared at the worn book in his hands, its faded cover trembling slightly between his fingers.
For the first time in years, something shifted inside him—not quite hope, not joy… but a flicker. A fragile warmth struggling beneath the weight of silence and scars. Something gentler than numbness.
He stepped toward the window, the late light casting long shadows across the orphanage room. Outside, the wind stirred the branches like quiet voices.
Placing his hand against the cool glass, he leaned in—eyes distant, yet filled with something quietly burning.
"We'll meet again, Sofia," he whispered, his voice barely holding back the ache.