My uncle's house sat at the very end of a narrow alley, cut off from the noise by an old iron gate that screeched every time it was opened. Inside was a small courtyard, with an old starfruit tree stripped bare of leaves, its roots pushing up through cracked concrete like long-healed scars.
I stepped inside without feeling like a guest.
But I wasn't family either.
I was just… someone standing between two shores, belonging to neither.
There were three children in the yard.
The two boys stood close to the porch, tall and thin, quiet. One of them was older than I expected, with deep, calm eyes—the kind of eyes that watch first before speaking. The other was shorter, hands tucked into his pockets, standing slightly to the side as if ready to shield whoever was behind him.
And the little girl…
she was squatting beside the starfruit tree.
She looked up when she saw me.
There was no curiosity. No caution. Just a very direct, very quick look. Then she sprang to her feet and ran toward me.
"Who are you?"
she asked, her voice clear.
Before I could answer, she was already standing right next to me—so close that my sleeve brushed her shoulder.
My uncle set my backpack down on a wooden chair.
"There aren't many people here,"
he said.
"You can relax. Don't worry about what anyone might say."
"Don't worry," he added.
"This house is just you, me, and the three kids."
I nodded. The little girl was still standing beside me, not moving. As if I were something that had just appeared—and she was afraid that if she let go, I would disappear.
The two boys nodded in greeting. They didn't ask questions. Didn't say much. But their eyes swept over me quickly, carefully. Not scrutinizing—memorizing.
The second night, I couldn't sleep.
The ceiling was high, the yellow light thin and cold. I lay on my side, listening to the ticking of the clock in the living room. That steady rhythm reminded me of the hospital—of nights spent waiting for the doctor to come out, barely daring to breathe.
Around midnight, my door opened softly.
I opened my eyes.
The little girl stood there.
She was hugging an old teddy bear, standing awkwardly, unsure whether she should come in.
"I… can't sleep,"
she whispered.
"Can I lie here?"
I shifted slightly inward. I didn't say anything.
She climbed onto the bed and lay close to me, hugging the bear—but her other hand clutched my sleeve tightly. As if I were the only anchor she had in this house.
I didn't ask why. Some children cling not because of affection, but because of safety.
The next morning, I woke up feeling my hand being held. The little girl was still asleep, her forehead resting against my shoulder, her breathing steady. I didn't pull my hand away.
In the kitchen, the two boys were already up early. The older one was lighting the stove, the younger washing dishes. No one talked much, but everything flowed smoothly, neatly. The kind of family where everyone knows their role without being told.
"Eat the porridge,"
the little girl said when I sat down.
She pushed the bowl toward me, her eyes firm, almost commanding.
I let out a soft laugh.
"You eat."
She shook her head.
"You eat first."
The two boys watched the scene silently. The older one finally spoke, very quietly:
"That's just how she is. Go ahead and eat."
In the days that followed, the little girl began to cling to me even more. Wherever I went, she followed. If I went into the yard, she went too. If I helped my uncle sort his medicine, she sat right beside me—touching nothing, but refusing to leave.
Once, I asked her:
"Why do you keep following me everywhere?"
She thought for a moment.
"I don't know."
Then she added,
"But I like it."
On the tenth day, my uncle called me into his room.
The door closed very gently.
"There's something,"
he said,
"that I need to tell you."
I listened. I didn't interrupt.
When he finished speaking, I sat there for a long time. I didn't cry. I didn't ask questions. I only felt something inside my chest collapse—then slowly stand back up again.
That night, the little girl hugged me very tightly.
She didn't ask anything.
She said only one sentence, her voice trembling:
"Please don't go."
From that day on, she clung to me more than before. Not just following—but guarding. If someone spoke to me, she looked first. If someone came close, she stood right beside me. Once, when I coughed lightly, she immediately went to get water.
The two boys remained quiet as always. But I began to notice something:
Whenever I came home late, the porch light was always on.
Whenever a stranger came asking questions, one of them was always nearby.
No words were needed.
They had already accepted me as family.
That night, I lay in the quiet room, the little girl holding me as if afraid I would fade away. I stared at the ceiling and thought one thing very clearly:
I could leave.
But I couldn't leave them behind.
And I didn't yet know that…
this very attachment,
this quiet clinging,
would become the thread that held me back
when I later stepped into darkness.