By the third week, I couldn't bear it.
The beatings, the hunger, the endless ache of being unloved—it gnawed at me until escape became the only thought left.
That night, I waited until the caretaker's snores shook the walls. Then I slipped out of bed, bare feet silent on the stone floor. My heart pounded as I crept past rows of sleeping children, their thin frames curled into themselves.
The back door was locked, but a window stood half-open, its wood frame rotting. I shoved at it, the hinges squealing. I froze, breath held, listening for footsteps. None came.
The cold night air kissed my face as I climbed onto the sill. For one fragile moment, hope flickered—freedom, a world beyond the iron bars and cane strikes.
But before I could drop down, a hand seized the back of my neck.