The late afternoon sun stretched golden across the backyard, casting long shadows over the grass as the breeze rustled through the trees. Birds chirped lazily in the distance, and the scent of blooming jasmine from the garden mingled with the faint aroma of dinner being prepared inside.
Meria sat alone beneath the shade of a tall sycamore tree, a book resting on her crossed legs, though her eyes hadn't moved from the same page in minutes. The voices of her parents drifted from the open windows—laughter, pots clinking, the rhythm of an ordinary evening.
Then—from behind her—came the soft, uncertain crunch of footsteps on the lawn.
Lumis.
He approached slowly, clutching a small, red rubber ball to his chest. His dark gray hair was tousled by the wind, and a hopeful glint flickered in his pale blue eyes.
He stopped a few steps away from her, unsure.
"…Sister," he said gently, voice barely above the breeze. "Do you… want to play with me?"
Meria didn't even glance up.
"No," she said curtly, flipping a page without reading it. "Go away."
Lumis hesitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "We could play catch… or tag? Or maybe that card game Mom taught us?" His voice lilted with quiet hope.
"I said no." Her tone sharpened. "I'm not your sister."
That landed harder than a slap. Lumis flinched, his small fingers curling tighter around the ball.
"But… Mom said we're family now," he tried again, eyes dropping. "You said that once, too…"
"I didn't mean it," Meria snapped. "You're not really my brother. You're just some kid Mom and Dad brought home."
Silence settled, heavy and awkward.
Lumis's lips parted, but no reply came.
He glanced at the ball in his hands, then back at her.
"I just thought…" he whispered, "maybe it would be fun."
Meria turned fully away from him, folding her arms. "I don't need anyone else in my family. Especially not you."
The wind rustled louder. The moment lingered.
Then—softly—the ball slipped from Lumis's grasp and landed with a muted thud on the grass.
"…Okay," he murmured, voice thin with something too young for heartbreak, but close.
He turned, shoulders low, and walked back across the yard in slow, measured steps. His small figure moved through the golden light like a ghost the sun had forgotten.
From the porch, Meria glanced over her shoulder.
She saw him bend down, pick up the ball again, and quietly start tossing it into the air—catching it alone, sometimes fumbling it, but trying again.
She stared for a moment. Something twisted in her chest.
But she turned back to her book.
And said nothing.
---
Later that night…
The dinner table buzzed with gentle conversation. Isara placed a warm dish of roasted vegetables down with a smile. Orlan poured water into each of their glasses.
"Lumis helped me in the kitchen today," Isara said with a proud grin. "He makes a good little sous-chef."
Lumis smiled faintly. "I like stirring the sauce…"
"Maybe he'll be a chef one day," Orlan added with a chuckle.
Meria pushed peas around on her plate. "He can cook all he wants. Just don't expect me to eat it."
Isara gave her a look, but didn't press. Orlan sighed quietly and resumed eating.
Lumis didn't say anything. He just picked at his food slowly.
Later, after dishes were done and the house quieted, Lumis padded softly into the hallway, barefoot. He paused outside Meria's door. Light leaked from beneath it.
He raised his hand to knock… then lowered it.
Instead, he sat down by the wall and hugged his knees to his chest. Listening.
Waiting.
Saying nothing.
---
A Few Years Later – Paris, France
Morning light filtered through the tall windows of a quiet home tucked within the old quarters of Paris. Golden rays danced across polished wooden floors, and the soft clink of dishes came from the kitchen, mingling with the distant hum of city life.
Yet beneath the peace, a quiet tension lingered.
Lumis—now fourteen, lean and sharp around the edges—stood in the hallway, shoulders slightly hunched, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. The boy who once trembled at every voice had grown quieter, more composed. But behind his calm, something restless stirred.
"Dad…" he said, almost a whisper, yet firm. "Can we visit the orphanage?"
Orlan looked up from behind his paper, surprise flickering across his usually composed face. "The orphanage?"
Lumis nodded once. "I want to see Sofia. I… need to know if she's still there."
Across the room, Isara turned from the kitchen sink, drying her hands with a towel. Her gaze lingered on Lumis's face, searching—perhaps hoping it was just a passing curiosity. But the weight behind his words silenced any doubt.
Meria, now sixteen, sat slouched on the living room couch, earbuds dangling around her neck. She glanced up and rolled her eyes dramatically.
"Seriously?" she muttered, mostly to herself. "Still thinking about her?"
Lumis didn't look at her. He didn't flinch. He just stared at Orlan, waiting.
Orlan folded the newspaper slowly, then exhaled. "It's been years, Lumis. You sure about this?"
Lumis nodded again, this time with something close to desperation buried beneath the stillness. "Please."
A long moment passed.
Then Orlan rose from his chair, smoothing out his coat. "Alright. Let's go."
Isara walked to Lumis's side, resting a hand on his shoulder. She didn't speak, but her touch was warm. Supportive.
Meria stayed on the couch, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. But as they moved toward the door, she stood—grudgingly—and followed.
---
Rosewood Orphanage – That Afternoon
The car rolled to a gentle stop before the aging building. Time had not been kind to it. The paint was more chipped, the flowers less tended, but the air still carried echoes of old laughter and small feet on dusty floors.
They stepped inside.
The warm scent of aged wood and faint lavender filled the air, but it felt colder than Lumis remembered.
Mrs. Elwen—older now, her hair fully silver and her eyes clouded with years of sorrow—looked up from her desk. Her tired smile lifted, then faltered the instant her gaze landed on the boy she once knew.
"Lumis…" she breathed, barely above a whisper. "You've grown so much."
Lumis stepped forward, his voice steady, but tight. "I came to see Sofia."
The smile vanished completely.
A shadow passed through her expression.
"She's here, right?" he pressed, taking another step. "Where is she?"
Mrs. Elwen's hands trembled slightly as she folded them together. She looked away, as if the truth itself hurt to face.
"Lumis… about a year after you were adopted, something happened."
His breath hitched.
"One night," she continued softly, "the children went to bed as usual. Nothing seemed off. But when morning came…" She paused. Her eyes glistened.
"Every child in the orphanage was gone."
Silence crushed the room.
"No trace," she whispered. "No signs of struggle. No broken locks, no footprints. Just… empty beds and quiet halls. Sofia was one of them. We searched every room, every street. We called the police, filed reports, pleaded with investigators…"
She shook her head, her voice cracking. "But she just… vanished."
Lumis stood frozen, the blood draining from his face.
His mind rejected the words. The orphanage around him blurred, as though reality itself bent out of shape.
"No…" he murmured, almost inaudibly. "She wouldn't leave. Not without a reason. Not without telling me."
"I know," Mrs. Elwen said, her own voice heavy with grief. "That's what haunts me too."
Lumis's breath caught in his throat. His knees buckled.
"Lumis!" Isara cried, rushing to his side.
But it was too late.
His vision went black, and his body collapsed to the floor—limp, silent, overwhelmed.
Unconscious.