The faint hum of the ceiling fan rotated in slow, lazy circles above Room 17 of FerryLane Orphanage.
A long silence glazed the building, cast by the flickering hallway bulbs that buzzed like an old radio stuck between stations.
Everyone was fast asleep, now curled under thin wool blankets, their breath soft and steady in the stillness of the night.
The boy wasn't sleeping. He hadn't planned to.
Lying on his side, his eyes remained open, fixed on the rusted metal frame of his bed.
A pocket-sized flashlight lay hidden under his pillow. He reached for it now and clicked it on—covering it quickly with the cuff of his sleeve to dim the beam.
Silently, he slipped out of bed. He opened the door of his room and shut it as quietly as possible.
The wooden floor creaked, and he paused, frozen, eyes darting toward the hallway. Nothing. Just the distant sound of the late-night television from the matron's office, barely audible.
He slung a bag across his shoulders, an old canvas bag he had packed earlier that week. It wasn't much— his father's personal journal, notebooks, a folded roadmap and torn photographs. A long tan trench coat, one that used to belong to his father, was folded neatly inside.
He tiptoed towards the window.
Outside, the orphanage yard was dim, lit only by a flickering street lamp near the fence. The iron gate beyond it looked heavy, but he had oiled the hinges days ago.
He pushed the window up gently. It gave a soft groan.
One leg out. Then the other. He had measured the distance of the window's sill to the ground, calculating the jump and gauging the potential landing multiple times.
With a held breath, he jumped off and his leather shoes hit the gravel once with a faint crunch. It worked.
He zipped up the coat, and crouched behind a line of overgrown bushes. From there, he moved swiftly to the side gate—careful not to disturb the loose gravel or rattle the iron.
He was halfway across the yard now, crouched low between the shadows of the building and the waist-high hedges that lined the side gate. The air was cold, and his breath puffed faintly with every exhale.
The orphanage behind him sat quiet and still... until—
"Hey! You! What are you doing out there?"
A voice, gruff and startled, tore through the silence like a siren. The boy froze.
From the side porch, a male staff worker stood, holding a flashlight in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He was a large man, always half-grumpy, and now wide-eyed in alarm.
"Get back inside! Now!"
The boy bolted.
The man cursed and dropped his cigarette, charging forward across the yard. The flashlight beam bounced erratically as the man shouted after him, "Stop right there! Do you hear me?!"
The boy ducked under the wooden fence near the tool shed and rolled behind a tree, his coat catching on a jagged nail.
He didn't stop.
He reached the iron side gate and yanked it open—slow but enough. The hinges groaned slightly, no matter how much he'd oiled them before. The man was getting closer.
"Where the hell do you think you're going, boy?!"
Ten feet.
Six.
The flashlight beam skimmed the bushes just behind him.
Without hesitation, the boy hurled a loose stone at the far side of the building—it clattered loudly against a metal gutter.
The man turned his head instinctively, barking, "Who's there?!"
That was the window.
The boy seized the opportunity to squeeze through the gates, his shoes scraping against the pavement as he dropped onto the road beyond the orphanage fence.
He ran. Down the community road, past the sleepy streetlamps and shuttered corner shops. He didn't stop until he reached a safe junction. His chest heaved.
The only sound being the low rumble of an old cargo truck disappearing into the distance.
He turned left and right— aiming for the nearest bus station. A mental note of the roadmap already in his head.