"Children, wake up. It's morning."
Her voice wasn't harsh, but it carried the sharpness of long habit.
A moment later, rhythmic claps cut through the lingering silence.
"Come on, come on. Up."
The door swung fully open. The woman stepped inside, her palms striking together as if to drive the drowsiness out of the room.
Her green hair was tied back at the nape of her neck; her nun's habit was neat, though worn with age. She was slender, small-chested, standing around five foot seven—perhaps five foot eight.
There was little softness in her expression—
instead, a look of practiced discipline.
The kind worn by those who do not enjoy raising their voice, yet refuse to tolerate silence.
The room began to wake.
Beds creaked.
Blankets were slowly pulled aside.
The final remnants of sleep dissolved quickly in the cold air of morning.
Mornings in this room always began the same way.
And as always, there was a single person who did not obey the command.
That person—as always—was Aethor.
The nun let out a deep sigh, laced with helplessness.
It was not anger, but the weariness of something she had faced far too many times.
Then she began to walk toward Aethor's bed, her steps slow and measured.
Neither hurried nor hesitant.
She already knew what she would find there.
The nun cleared her throat a few times.
"Ahem… ahem."
The children's gazes shifted instinctively toward Aethor.
"When I said everyone, I meant you as well, Aethor," she said.
Her tone softened this time—unexpectedly light, almost cheerful.
"Today is your first day of high school. You wouldn't want to miss it."
After a brief pause, she added,
"High school isn't like elementary or middle school. You'll regret it later."
She smiled as she spoke.
But it was not the smile of celebration—
it felt more like a well-meaning warning.
Aethor pulled the blanket over his head and muttered lazily.
His voice was drowsy, sluggish, and indifferent.
"I don't care," he said.
"Nothing is worth leaving my bed during the best hours of sleep."
His words came muffled from beneath the covers, yet the certainty in them was clear.
It wasn't stubbornness—
it felt as though the world simply did not matter enough to move him.
The nun's patience was slowly wearing thin.
A few veins stood out at her temples—
a quiet sign of restrained anger.
Still, she did not raise her voice.
She tried to speak as calmly as she could.
Yet no matter how much she held it back,
there was hurt woven into her words.
"But Aethor," she said,
"if you don't go to school, how will you ever become a great man?"
She paused briefly, then continued as if clinging to a gentler vision.
"Just imagine it…
One day, becoming a wealthy man—helping this orphanage and the children here.
Think of the happiness you would feel then."
The words were spoken with hope.
But it was the kind of hope Aethor refused to hear.
Aethor was still lying in bed.
From beneath the blanket, he spoke in a careless tone.
"Sister Anna…"
There was a brief pause.
"Do you actually believe that lie yourself?"
His voice was mocking, almost drowsy.
"Great men aren't made by studying.
They're made by exploiting the cracks in the system."
He shifted slightly under the covers.
"If you study, at best, you just become one more white-collar among trillions."
Then his tone turned cold.
"As for helping others…"
"If I ever truly become rich, I don't want to see this place—or the people in it—ever again."
A pause.
"Not their faces…"
"Not even their smell."
Aethor extended a hand from beneath the blanket and made a dismissive gesture toward Sister Anna—
a clear sign that she was no longer welcome there.
"If the conversation is over," he said,
"leave me alone."
After those words, Sister Anna could no longer control her anger.
Her patience finally snapped.
"AETHOR!!!"
Her voice made everyone in the room flinch.
Twenty minutes later…
After receiving a thorough beating from Sister Anna, I finally got out of bed.
My body still ached, but there was not a trace of regret on my face.
Under the uncomfortable and angry stares of the other children, I made my bed.
Silently.
Then I went to the sink.
I washed my hands, my face.
And finally, I brushed my teeth.
As if nothing had happened.
After putting on my school uniform, I stood in front of the mirror.
The jacket rested neatly on my shoulders; the white shirt beneath was slightly open at the collar. I hadn't worn a tie—on purpose.
My hair was messy, but not uncontrolled, as if each strand had decided its place on its own.
The dark color framed my features sharply, giving my face an unnatural clarity.
The eyes staring back at me didn't quite feel like mine.
There was a faint golden hue to them—
a stillness that didn't belong to someone who was only fifteen.
I didn't want to be arrogant.
But denying it wasn't possible either.
My appearance drew attention—
the kind that made people pause without knowing why.
It wasn't pride.
Just an observation.
And that, in itself, was the problem
Because of my appearance, many families wanted to adopt me.
But I rejected every single one of them—coldly and without hesitation.
Why?
It was simple.
Those looks…
None of them were looking at a child.
They weren't choosing a son.
They were inspecting something to own—
like picking a pet.
They weren't searching for love.
They wanted possession.
It was impossible not to feel it.
And I refused to be something anyone owned.
That was what he thought.
When I was finished getting ready, I picked up my bag and walked down the stairs—slowly, but with determination.
Downstairs, I saw Sister Anna and more than twenty children seated at the tables.
The food in front of them…
It wasn't fresh. It looked as if it was on the verge of going stale.
Yet no one complained.
No one seemed surprised.
Because this was an orphanage.
And like most others, the one I lived in received very little funding from the government.
Abundance had never been a guest in this building.
The meals were scarce.
There were no choices.
And expectations had long since run out.
Sister Anna's anger had long since faded.
Now she was eating calmly, her movements slow and measured.
With her mouth still full, she began to speak—
her expression almost innocent.
"Aethor, come on. Have some breakfast," she said.
"You shouldn't go to school hungry on your first day."
She paused briefly, then added,
"Otherwise, you might have trouble focusing in class."
There was no scolding in her voice.
No sharpness.
It was as if nothing that happened earlier that morning had ever occurred.
And somehow, that bothered Aethor just as much as her shouting had.
Aethor wasn't surprised by her reaction.
They had been through this many times before.
In fact, after the eighteenth time, he had stopped counting altogether.
He looked at Sister Anna first.
Then at the food on the table.
Stale bread.
Dull colors.
A breakfast whose contents were barely identifiable.
Then he looked back at Sister Anna and spoke.
"No, thank you," he said calmly.
"I'd probably get a healthier meal by eating a rock."
There was no shouting in his voice.
No anger.
Only a cold certainty.
Sister Anna and the other children were not surprised by his reaction.
By now, this behavior had become part of Aethor's nature.
No one tried to stop him.
No one called after him.
And Aethor stopped paying attention to them.
He quietly walked toward the door, left the building,
and set off toward school.
Behind him, only lingering gazes remained.
Ahead of him—an unseen threshold.