I thought I would meet some children, maybe see a classroom or two, maybe hear laughter echoing through the halls. But I don't think I can do it today.
I've been here for fifteen minutes already. Sitting, crying. Breathing through it. And still, I feel like a balloon pulled too tight—ready to burst at a whisper.
The orphanage smells like disinfectant and old wood, the faint sweetness of something floral—maybe someone's cheap perfume or laundry detergent. It wraps around me like an old blanket I don't want to wear again. Familiar, but not comforting.
Elliot stands quietly beside me now. He doesn't speak. Doesn't try to fill the silence. He just ... stays. Present. Keeps me grounding. I don't know if I can make this far without him.
"It's okay," I whisper. Maybe to myself, maybe to the hallway. "It takes time."