Title: The Boy Named Rupert
Chapter 1: Not Home Anymore
Date: November 7, 1968
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I woke up in a hospital bed, weak, cold, and in a body that wasn't mine.
White walls surrounded me. The room smelled like antiseptic, rubber gloves, and faint plastic. A slow drip came from the IV in my arm. I blinked up at the harsh ceiling lights, trying to move. My arms were small, lighter than I remembered, my skin pale — almost translucent in this lighting.
A nurse walked in moments later. Blonde, smiling, white.
"Good morning, sweetheart. Feeling better today?" she asked gently.
Behind her, another nurse passed by — this one tall and Black, wheeling a metal tray down the corridor.
That was the moment it truly sank in.
This wasn't the Philippines anymore.
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They called me Rupert Johnson.
A boy, three years old, abandoned in the emergency lobby days ago. I'd been brought in with a fever and red spots all over my body — chickenpox. No parents, no ID, no emergency contact. The woman who dropped me off gave no name and disappeared.
The nurse who found me named me Rupert.
That's what's written on the chart by my bed.
But I'm not Rupert.
I'm Anthony Stone.
I was born in Cebu. I remember the rusty electric fan in our room, the sound of tricycles passing by the window, the old black-and-white TV on a wooden cabinet, and my mother's soft voice praying when she thought I was asleep.
I remember being sick.
And then… this.
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I was discharged three days later and moved to a local orphanage run by state workers and a few nuns. The building sat on the edge of some small Indiana town. Cold sidewalks. Quiet streets. Dull, gray skies.
The orphanage was old and tired. Wooden floorboards that creaked when you stepped wrong. Furniture that smelled like history. The food was bland, but the soup was warm.
That's when I began to really look at myself.
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In the bathroom mirror, the face that stared back at me didn't belong to the Anthony I remembered.
It was delicate. Soft pink lips, almost pouty. A small, heart-shaped face that made me look like a little girl at first glance. Wavy ginger hair curled over my forehead in strands that shimmered under the yellow light. Freckles dotted my cheeks and nose, and my green eyes looked too bright to be real.
I used to be thin from sickness, malnourished even in my Filipino body. But after days in the hospital — with steady food and warmth — this new body looked clearer, softer, fuller.
I looked like one of those kids you'd see in milk ads.
Even the nuns said it:
> "Such a pretty child. Almost angelic."
"Those eyes! Lord help us, he's got movie-star eyes!"
I learned quickly how to use it.
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They didn't ask much. They assumed I had amnesia. That I was too young to remember. When adults looked at me, they softened. When I looked up at them with big eyes and nodded shyly, they smiled more. Offered seconds at dinner. Gave me better blankets.
So I played the part.
Soft-spoken. Gentle. Curious.
And when the other kids needed help — reaching the sink, tying their shoes, calming down — I stepped in.
That earned me friends.
And enemies.
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Some of the older boys didn't like me.
They called me names behind my back. "Porcelain." "Doll-boy." One of them, Frankie, pushed me at lunch once, and my tray hit the floor. Everyone laughed.
I didn't.
I looked at the spoon beside my foot.
And it moved.
Just a twitch.
But I saw it. Felt it.
The air shimmered slightly when I focused — like something invisible holding its breath.
That night, I tried again in the dark. A crayon on the windowsill. I stared. Reached without moving.
It rolled toward me.
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Something's wrong with me. Or right.
I don't know if this is some curse or gift. I don't know if I was sent here for a reason, or if it's all a horrible accident.
But I'm watching.
Listening.
Learning.
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My name is Rupert Johnson now.
But inside, I'm still Anthony.
And whatever this world is… whatever it's hiding…
I'm not going to be helpless this time.