Hope.

  It was the first thing she felt that morning, still reeling from Elra’s announcement on the roof the night before. Her heart beat faster and faster, as if it were about to leap out of her chest.

  She rose from her bed quietly, folded her blanket neatly, pressing down the corners just the way Matron Elra had taught her. The moon was gone now, replaced by a sky the color of cold ash, but its memory still lingered behind her eyes.

  She walked softly through the still hallway, careful not to wake the others, and made her way toward the back of the orphanage where warmth was already beginning to stir. The kitchen was humming low with the early sounds of boiling water and creaking cabinets.

  One of the kitchen women gave her a silent nod, pointing to the bucket same as always. She fetched it, filled it at the pump, and carried it back without complaint.

  As she tried to drown herself in yet another morning routine, she noticed it.

  Matron Elra had cleaned her apron, twice. She’d scrubbed the hem, re-tied her hair, even replaced the usual chipped brooch with a newer one that shimmered faintly in the light.

  The floors had been swept before dawn. Fresh bread was in the oven, not yesterday’s leftover stew.

  She knew what it meant. So she set the rag down and stepped back.

  “Thank you,” she said softly to the kitchen woman.

  The woman glanced over, surprised by the voice in the quiet. Then she gave a small smile the kind that flickered only at the edges of her mouth.

  “You’re welcome, Moony,” she said gently.

  She nodded, said nothing more, and turned toward the hall.

  Normally, she would have stayed longer to help with dishes and sweep the back steps.

  But today, she couldn’t. Stirred by a quiet hope that she thought she had already discarded, she wanted to look presentable.

  She entered her room without a sound, closed the door, and went to the small chest at the foot of her bed. Inside were the same few pieces of clothing, carefully folded. She reached for the neatest one.

  By now, the other children had begun to stir. The quiet hum of morning filled the space; whispered conversations, the rustle of blankets, the shuffle of small feet slipping into worn shoes. One by one, they drifted out of the room, drawn by the promise of breakfast and warmth. Within a minute, only she remained.

  Elra entered the room.

  The matron stepped through the door with her usual quiet grace, closing it partway behind her. Morning light pooled around her ankles as she crossed the room, a brush held lightly in her hand.

  She always brushed the girls’ hair before visitors came neat and proper, just like the rest of the orphanage. It was part of the routine, part of the care she gave to all of them.

  But with the silver-haired girl, Elra always took a little more time.

  Her hand moved slower. Each stroke was less about appearances and more about reaching inward, brushing at her soul, trying to coax that fragile flame of confidence.

  “There’s a couple from the outer district, well dressed. Mages, I think. They are the ones I said would adopt you.”

  Her tone was light, almost casual, but the girl could feel the careful weight beneath it. The way Elra paused before speaking, the way her fingers softened around the brush as if not to tug too hard.

  Elra continued to explain what kind of girl the couple was looking for, but the girl realized each word was chosen like a thread in a stitch, pulled tight with quiet hope.

  Apparently, Elra had spoken to the couple herself, had lingered near the front hall longer than she needed to, subtly steering the conversation their way. She’d dropped the girl’s name gently, deliberately weaving it into the kind of details that didn’t sound like praise, just truth.

  She knew the girl didn’t meet ‘the’ expectation. But there was more to choosing than charts and numbers. There had to be.

  So now, as she brushed the silver hair she knew by feel better than her own, Elra tried to give her something she rarely dared:

  A reason to hope.

  The girl sat still, listening to the soft drag of the brush through her hair, her gaze fixed on the floor. She didn’t say anything. But she understood.

  She could guess how hard it was for Elra to persuade the couple. Knew how carefully Elra must have nudged the conversation, how much of her own quiet authority she had spent to bring the couple’s attention even briefly to the silver-haired girl hiding at the back of the roster.

  The brush slowed then stopped. Elra set it aside, smoothing down the girl’s hair with her palm in one final, lingering touch.

  “There,” she said softly. “You look lovely.”

  She sat there on the edge of her bed, hands folded in her lap, looking almost too composed for a child her age.

  Her silver hair, freshly brushed, framed her face in soft, even strands cut just below the chin, neat and deliberate. It shimmered faintly in the morning light, catching glints of pale gold where the sun touched it. Short, but elegant. Like moonlight trimmed to fit.

  She wore a white blouse, crisp and clean, its collar lying flat against her neck. The fabric was plain but well-kept, the sleeves buttoned at the cuffs. Her black skirt reached just below the knees, simple and proper — the kind of outfit meant to show she could behave, that she could belong.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Then, before the moment could pass, before either of them remembered where the boundaries were supposed to be. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Elra’s waist.

  A quiet hug. Only possible because no one else was there.

  Elra stiffened for the briefest second out of habit, then slowly lowered a hand to the girl’s back.

  Outside, a bell chimed once at the front gate, sharp and clear.

  Elra drew back, her hand lingering a moment longer before falling away. She gave a soft breath, like someone setting aside something fragile.

  “They’re here.”

  The morning had turned into an unnatural routine.

  Outside, the wind had calmed, and even the trees seemed to stand at attention, their bare limbs motionless against a gray sky. The garden gate, usually creaking in time with the breeze, hung quiet on its hinges. Dew clung to the edges of the stone path, untouched and undisturbed, like the world itself had paused in anticipation.

  Inside, the air was warmer but no less tense. The scent of boiled grain and soap hung low, mingling with something colder, shoes too clean for this place, fabric that had never seen dirt. The front hall had been swept twice over. Windows wiped, curtains straightened, every sign of disorder tucked out of sight. But for the same reason one might dust off an old book before handing it to someone new.

  When the couple arrived, the orphanage seemed to hold its breath.

  It wasn’t spoken, but everyone felt it: the shift in the air, the sudden hush that settled over the halls. Chores were done more carefully, voices dropped to whispers, and even the youngest children stopped running just long enough to peek around corners with wide, curious eyes.

  The front gate creaked open only once, but the sound echoed like a bell. Their carriage was modest but elegant. Dark wood polished to a soft sheen, the kind of carriage that didn't need to prove anything because its silence already did.

  Footsteps on stone. The rustle of fine robes. The scent of lavender oil and parchment and something faintly magical.

  Mages.

  They never came without reason. And when they did, it was never for long.

  The staff straightened their aprons. The cook lit the hearth again, even though the morning chill had already passed. Chairs were dusted, hair re-braided, dust swept twice from corners that hadn't seen feet in weeks.

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  In the dining hall, the staff spoke in lowered voices.

  “Do you think they’re here for someone?”

  “Could be Lora. She’s been reading well.”

  “Maybe Rulin. He’s always charming with visitors.”

  “You think… it might be her?”

  An unintentional question, rewarded by a silence.

  “That’s unlikely… They’re Mages. Mages always read the reports.”

  “Who knows? Maybe these one will look past the reports.”

  “Haha, yeah… sure.”

  And then the doors opened.

  They were led to the small receiving room near the front of the orphanage.

  The couple entered first.

  They stepped in quietly— the man with silver-threaded cuffs, the woman in neatly pressed gloves— and took their seats with a kind of poised familiarity. They didn’t speak much to Elra, only nodded politely as they listened to her, their presence measured but not unkind. The door was left open, just a sliver of hallway showing beyond.

  Then the girl was called in.

  She stepped through the doorway like a shadow slipping into light, her movements careful, rehearsed. Her silver hair caught the sun as she crossed the room, and for a brief moment, the wildflowers on the table seemed dull by comparison.

  The receiving room was small and tidy, tucked just off the main hall near the front of the orphanage. It was used only for special visits—potential parents, officials, donors— and it always smelled faintly of polished wood and dried lavender, as if someone had scrubbed the air itself.

  Sunlight filtered through the tall, narrow windows, catching on dust that floated like slow snow. A simple rug softened the stone floor, and two wooden chairs faced a cushioned bench with curved legs. In the center stood a low table, bare except for a vase of carefully arranged wildflowers daffodils, maybe, or something meant to look cheerful without being too bold.

  To her, the room felt like a mirror. But instead of showing her reflection, it peeled deep beneath the skin, exposing everything: the fault lines, the fractures, the desperate parts that still hoped. It bared her open—heart, flaws, and all—for a stranger to judge and decide whether she was worth the trouble.

  Then the clock’s hand seemed to hesitate, like it was wading through syrup instead of air.

  She sat straight, hands folded just so, feeling the air wrap around her like a held breath. The couple’s presence was gentle.

  The couple sat comfortably, not stiff like most visitors. The woman smiled first— a small, gentle curve of the lips and said, “You must be the one Matron Elra told us so much about. I love your hair.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” the girl replied softly. She sat up straighter, hands folded neatly in her lap. “Matron Elra helped me brush it this morning.”

  The girl then glanced down for a moment, then looked back up shyly.

  “Your gloves are lovely too,” she said.

  The woman blinked, then smiled a little wider this time.

  “Thank you.”

  The man was watching quietly, his expression reserved but not cold.

  “You’re very calm, Do you get nervous around new people?”

  “A little, but I try to stay calm. It helps me think better.” The girl looked down almost as if reminding herself.

  The man leaned forward slightly, his tone mild.

  “What’s your day usually like here?”

  “I like helping,” she said, “Carrying water, sweeping, folding towels. I don’t mind doing it by myself.”

  “And what do you do during your free time?” the woman said.

  “I read, mostly anything that Matron Elra lets me borrow. Storybooks, sometimes history.”

  She paused; she knew the direction the couple are going, and so rather than be lead there, she would address the question itself.

  “I also practice magic. A little. I try every day,” she said, then hesitated. “I can do the basics just… not as strong. Or as long. But I’m getting better.” She spoke plainly, not wanting to lie. Honesty felt safer besides, they probably already knew. Her hair gave her away.

  The room went still for a moment —not tense, just full of something that felt like listening.

  The interview went on a little longer, quiet questions, soft answers, and long, thoughtful silences. Eventually, the man gave a small nod, and the woman offered a polite smile.

  “That was very helpful,” she said. “Thank you for speaking with us.”

  The girl stood, her movements calm and practiced.

  “Thank you for your time,” she replied, then gave a small bow of her head before stepping out into the hall.

  A few minutes later, another name was called.

  She sat alone on the bench, hands folded tightly in her lap, feet just barely brushing the floor. The hallway felt colder now— not from any draft, but from the silence that followed her exit.

  Her back was straight. Her expression calm. But inside, everything was waiting.

  She watched the door across from her, listened to the muffled shuffle of feet and quiet instructions as the next name was called. One by one, the other children passed her, some with bouncing steps, others with glances thrown her way that quickly looked elsewhere.

  She was aware. Aware of how easily people saw what they wanted to see.

  And how hard it was to be noticed when you were quiet, when your strength was stillness.

  Her fingers curled slightly in her skirt.

  She told herself she had done everything right. Sat properly. Spoke clearly. Said thank you. Didn't say too much. Didn't say too little.

  But the uncertainty still sat beside her. Wordless. Heavy.

  She looked up briefly as the next child walked past, a girl with bright ribbons in her braids, cheeks still flushed from nervous energy. Then another. Then a boy, one of the louder ones, trying awkwardly to smooth his shirt.

  She watched each one go in.

  She didn’t try to lean closer. Didn’t press her ear to the door or angle her head toward the voices inside.

  It was only when all the children had finished, when the hallway emptied again and silence settled in like dust that something in her shifted.

  She heard footsteps, soft, familiar, and looked up just in time to see Elra approach the door.

  The matron paused, her hand on the handle, glancing once toward the girl with a look that held nothing the others could see. Then she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  This time, the girl leaned forward, but not toward the door.

  She stood slowly, casting a quick glance down the corridor. Empty. Then she moved to the opposite wall, the one that separated the hallway from the meeting room. It looked like any other part of the orphanage: wooden boards, slightly warped with age, varnished smooth by time and hands that had passed too often without noticing.

  But she had noticed.

  Just beneath the old bench fixed along the wall, half-concealed by shadow and dust, was a knot in the wood —an uneven hole carved deep, wide enough to see through if you knelt low. She had found it months ago. Maybe it had been made by a child like her, years before. Or a servant. Someone else who had wanted to listen without being seen.

  From her side, it was hidden by the bench. From the meeting room, the hole was tucked behind a tall cabinet —nearly invisible unless someone crawled down and looked for it. And even then, she had stuffed a scrap of cloth into the corner just in case. Just enough to make it look like an old patch of darkness.

  She crouched now, pulling the cloth aside, careful not to let it flutter. The hole revealed a thin sliver of the room beyond. She leaned closer

  Inside, she saw movement: the curve of Elra’s shoulder as she spoke, the edge of the couple seated just within view, their hands resting against polished wood. The man was holding a piece of parchment. The woman sat very still, her gloves folded neatly.

  “She’s polite. Quiet. Reads well beyond her age,” said Elra, her voice composed but gently insistent. “She trains hard. Her condition isn’t making her unable to become a mage —she just needs more effort, There’s still time. And who knows —maybe the war will be over. There haven’t been any major offensives in months. Just border skirmishes, a few raids— “

  “They’re still drafting.” The man’s eyes stayed on the report, his grip tightening slightly. “They’re still watching for anyone who uses magic. Even a simple spark is enough for them to draft someone.”

  “She wouldn’t be alone,” Elra said gently. “With guidance, with care—”

  “My son had both,” the man interrupted, his voice barely above a whisper. “He was quiet. Kind. Low-count, but not hopeless. We thought we could keep him safe. They said it was just a patrol. Just a raid. He never came back.”

  Beside him, the woman closed her eyes for a moment, her hand still resting on his arm, as if holding him in place. Her voice came quieter than his, but steadier.

  “We buried one child already.”

  “We did everything right,” the woman continued. “We raised him gently. We taught him to be careful. To serve without being seen. And still... we buried him.”

  The man finally looked up, his eyes tired and glassy.

  “She’s everything we asked for.”

  “She is,” the woman continued, “gentle, thoughtful, observant. Not demanding. Not loud. She listens. She tries. Everything we said we wanted in a child.”

  Elra waited, her hands clasped in front of her, saying nothing.

  “That’s the problem,” the woman said softly. “We can’t look at another child now. Not after her.”

  Elra’s brow furrowed.

  “You’re not considering anyone else?”

  “No.” The woman gave a small, strained smile. “Because none of them will be her. She didn’t do anything wrong. She just reminded us too much—of our son. And what it meant... to be born with too little mana.”

  “We came looking for another child. We thought we were ready,” the man murmured. “But instead... we found him again. In another body.”

  He stood slowly, folding the report once more. This time, he didn’t open it again.

  A silence followed one heavy with what might have been.

  Elra walked towards the door first, her face composed but drawn. The couple followed close behind, their footsteps slow, their expressions unreadable. The door opened with a soft creak.

  From her place behind the wall, the girl panicked a little.

  Quickly, she slipped the cloth back over the hole, rose silently, and returned to the bench where she had been sitting before. Her hands smoothed her skirt, her breathing steadying. She sat straight. Waiting. As if she had been there all along.

  When the three adults rounded the corner and saw her, they paused.

  The girl looked up.

  Her silver hair caught the light from the tall window behind her. Her posture was perfect, her expression calm. And when her eyes met the man’s, she smiled, small, hopeful, soft. Not because she believed it would change anything.

  But because it was all she had to offer.

  The man stopped walking. He knelt in front of her, gently, as if kneeling before something fragile.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  The girl blinked once, then shook her head, still smiling.

  “It’s okay,” the girl said, still smiling, “I’m sure I’ll get adopted soon.” Her voice carried a lightness that didn’t quite reach her eyes. A softness meant to spare them the weight they were already carrying.

  The man opened his mouth, but no words came.

  Then, without warning, the girl leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him.

  The man stiffened, startled by the sudden contact by how small she felt in his arms. How light. How much like his son, and yet not. His throat closed around something too old to name. His chest tightened.

  He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her face her calm, composed expression. Her silver hair catching the light like a memory. Her eyes... knowing.

  She had heard them. And she wasn’t angry.

  A tear slipped down his cheek.

  His wife stepped forward and placed her hand gently on his shoulder. She didn’t try to stop the tears. She just stood there, steady, as he bowed his head.

  After a long, aching pause, they turned.

  As the couple stepped through the orphanage doors, the girl remained seated, her small hands folded tightly in her lap, her eyes fixed on the place where they had just stood.

  The hallway, once filled with quiet expectation, now felt hollow. Like a room after music stops, when the fade-out feels louder than the song itself.

  Her fingers twitched, curling tighter, then slowly loosened as she stood. Her legs felt a little heavier than before. Her chest, a little tighter. She turned around stiff at first and saw Elra standing just behind her, silent and still.

  The girl took one step. Then another. And then she cracked.

  She crossed the remaining distance too fast to be composed. Threw her arms around Elra’s waist and buried her face into the fabric of her apron. Her shoulders trembled, just once.

  Elra didn’t speak.

  Didn’t say it’s alright, because it wasn’t.

  She simply closed her arms around the girl, slow, steady and held her. Held her like something fragile.

  The girl didn’t say anything. Just hoping that maybe the hug would numb the pain a little.