Shade could not remember how he arrived at the orphanage. His earliest memory was simply opening his eyes to a quiet room and the soft creaking of wooden floors beneath him. Voices drifted in from somewhere far away, bright and lively, yet they felt as if they belonged to another world entirely.
He was eight years old. He did not know how he knew that. The knowledge rested in his mind like a single candle in a large and empty space. Everything before that moment was missing. No faces. No voices. No warmth. Only a soft, silent darkness where something important should have been.
The other children were playing outside that morning. Their laughter floated through the open window, light and warm. Shade sat alone on the old bench beside the wall. He listened quietly, but the sound felt distant from him, like he was watching a scene through a thin sheet of glass. No one called his name. No one asked him to join. They looked at him once, then looked away, as if he was only a shadow resting in a corner.
He did not understand why it hurt. A small ache grew inside his chest each time their laughter rose. Loneliness and longing pressed gently against his heart, although he could not explain who or what he was longing for. He felt as if something had been taken from him long ago, something he needed in order to feel whole.
Whenever he closed his eyes, he sensed a hidden emptiness, smooth and quiet, as if someone had carefully wiped away every memory he once carried. He did not know who did it. He did not know why. He only knew that the emptiness felt too deliberate to be an accident.
The children continued playing in the sunlight. Their world was bright and vivid. Shade's world was silent, soft, and dim. They were separated by only a few steps, yet he felt as though he could not reach them.
He lowered his head and rested his hands on his knees. The sadness inside him did not overflow or break him. It simply stayed with him, like a small shadow that had chosen to remain by his side.
Maybe someday, he thought, I will not be alone like this.
He did not know where the thought came from, but it felt warm. Small. Fragile.
Like the first spark of light in an endless night.