in the orphanage

Kian's eyes flickered open in the dead of night, his breath ragged and heart pounding. He had been dreaming again—about the past, about that dark time in his life. The remnants of the nightmare clung to him like a heavy fog. His body jerked upright, and for a moment, he was disoriented, lost between the present and the past.

The camp around him was still, save for the distant crackle of the fire. The sounds of his companions' steady breathing, the occasional rustle of blankets, reassured him that he was safe. But the echo of that feeling—the helplessness, the loneliness—lingered in his chest.

"Not again," Kian muttered to himself, hands trembling as he wiped his face, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream. The memories... they never fully went away. Every time he thought he was free from them, they crept back in, like an old wound that refused to heal.

He ran his fingers through his hair and stood up, trying to quiet his mind. It was the dead of night, but he couldn't sleep. Not now. The others were still resting, but Kian couldn't shake the cold weight in his chest. He needed to escape for a moment, to be alone. 

Slipping quietly from the firelight, Kian moved through the darkened camp, his footsteps barely making a sound on the soft earth. He found a spot by the edge of the camp, away from the others, and sat down on a fallen log. He stared into the night, his breath visible in the cool air, and tried to steady himself.

The images from his dream still lingered—his younger self, alone in the orphanage, surrounded by silence and emptiness. He was just a child then, no older than six or seven, staring at the worn walls and wondering where his mother was. The letters. The flowers. They were all so real, but they felt so far away now. 

He remembered the day they had first arrived, the rescue team that had found him, almost dead in the streets, hungry and sick. They had brought him back to the orphanage, a place filled with other children, each one as broken as he was. Most of them could speak, could laugh, could cry. But Kian couldn't. His throat had been too raw from all those silent years, the years before the rescue. 

The other children had tried to talk to him, but he couldn't respond. They didn't know why he stayed silent, and neither did he. All he knew was that he was different. His friend, Lyra, was the only one who didn't mind. She never gave up on him, and she became his voice. 

"Don't worry, Kian," she had told him once, sitting beside him on the cold floor of their small room, her voice soft and patient. "One day, you'll be able to speak. You'll be able to tell people who you are." 

He had clung to her words, even when the days seemed endless. Every night, Lyra would read him the letters from their sponsors—letters that were full of hope and promises of bright futures. The children were all so excited whenever they received their letters. But for Kian, there were none. He never received any letters. The others would talk about their families, about their lives before the orphanage. But Kian couldn't share those stories. There was nothing to share. 

One day, however, a letter did come. A single letter, with a small flower pressed inside. Lyra read it aloud to him, her voice trembling as she recognized the words. It was from his mother.

"She says she's coming for you," Lyra had said, holding the letter out with trembling hands. "In 100 days. She'll come for you, Kian. Your mom's coming."

Kian's heart had leapt in his chest at those words. For the first time in his life, someone had written to him. Someone had remembered him. It was the first thread of hope he had felt in years. 

But 100 days came and went, and no one came. His mother didn't show up. The letters stopped arriving, and the flowers faded. Kian's heart grew heavy with the weight of abandonment, and for the first time, he felt a true, deep ache. 

The other children received more letters, more gifts. They spoke eagerly of the families who sent them these things, the people who cared about them. But Kian… Kian had nothing.

It was then that he realized something. The woman who had written the letters—the woman who promised to come—wasn't his mother. It wasn't possible. The words in the letters, the way they were written, weren't from someone who had truly known him. It was a lie. A cruel lie. His mother had never been coming for him.

And so, one night, after a particularly hard day of watching the others celebrate their good fortune, Kian did something desperate. He left the orphanage.

The outside world, the one filled with monsters, was dangerous, but Kian didn't care. He was going to find his mother, the one who had promised to come. Maybe the world outside was filled with darkness, but it couldn't be worse than the emptiness he felt inside.

He ventured into the night, the wilds filled with beasts and dangers lurking just beyond the safety of the orphanage. He wandered, searching for any sign of her, but there was nothing. Only the howls of monsters in the distance. 

And when he finally returned, hours later, his heart heavy with defeat, he found the orphanage had been attacked. The monsters had come in the night.

The walls were torn down. The children… the other children… they were gone. The orphanage was nothing but rubble, and there were no bodies, only blood and torn fabric. 

Kian had collapsed on the ground, his body shaking, his mind reeling. He was the only one left. The one who had been forgotten. 

The next day, Lyra had arrived with her mother, only to find the same devastation. Her eyes had searched the ruins, and when she saw Kian, sitting among the wreckage, she had screamed. 

"I'm sorry," she had whispered through her tears. "I'm so sorry, Kian."

But it was too late. His mother had never come for him. 

Kian let out a breath, his body trembling as the memories hit him again. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see Rayan standing beside him, his expression soft with understanding.

"You okay?" Rayan asked quietly.

Kian nodded, though the weight of his past still clung to him like a shadow. He didn't speak for a long time, his gaze fixed on the stars above. 

Finally, he whispered, his voice barely audible, "I lost everyone. I lost my chance to know who I was. And now... I'm just… I'm just trying to find something worth holding onto."

Rayan knelt beside him, a steady presence. "You've got us, Kian. All of us. You're not alone anymore."

The words, simple as they were, carried a weight Kian hadn't realized he needed. For the first time in a long time, he felt something akin to warmth, a sense of being truly seen. 

And though the past still haunted him, Kian knew that here, with these people, he had something worth fighting for. Something that wasn't just a memory, but a future. A future they would face together.

As Rayan stood and moved back to the camp, Kian felt a quiet resolve settle within him. The monsters of the past still lurked in his mind, but he wasn't the lost child anymore. He had a family now. He had a place. And whatever came next, he wasn't facing it alone. 

For the first time in his life, Kian allowed himself to believe that maybe—just maybe—he could find a way to heal.