"Dinner's ready."
Accompanied by the Caregiver's emotionless shout, Morris, who had just returned from school, quietly walked into the dining room.
Calling it a dining room was generous; it was little more than a dilapidated, neglected space. A large table and a few benches were the only furniture. The mottled mold on the walls and peeling wallpaper spoke of years of abandonment. What era was this building from anyway? Victorian? Or perhaps even older?
In any case, this was the place Morris had called home for several years.
The food on the table was the same as always: pasta with a tiny bit of meat sauce, cheap mass-produced sausages, and a large helping of mashed potatoes and onions. Taste-wise, it wasn't terrible; at least, Morris didn't dislike it. After all, the price of food didn't always reflect its quality.
He walked unhurriedly to his usual seat in the corner and sat down. Just as he settled in, the sound of messy footsteps echoed from a distance, growing louder.
A tall, thin boy with hair like withered yellow straw practically rushed in. He glanced at Morris out of habit, then flopped down diagonally across from him, eyes darting nervously between the food on the table.
He's starving, Morris thought.
Soon, other children filed in one after another. There were about ten of them, ranging in age from six or seven to fourteen or fifteen. One of the older boys bore a hideous scar on his face.
Once everyone had taken their seats, the Caregiver's voice rang out again: "Eat." The clatter of utensils and the low murmur of chatter filled the room.
Probably because it was summer break, the children seemed in good spirits.
Morris picked up his fork and stirred the thick glob of mashed potatoes on his plate.
School, eating, sleeping. That was his daily routine—unchanging, utterly dull. He hated being bored.
Why was he living such a life? Because he was in an orphanage on the outskirts of London. Or, more accurately, what was now called a "Children's Home." A government-run facility for homeless children. Morris was one of them. He had no choice.
By his count, this was already his eleventh year in this world. He was not a native; he had come from a great Eastern nation in the 21st century. And this year, if memory served, was 1991.
An unfamiliar place. An unfamiliar time.
"It's going to be a long time," he thought, sighing silently.
This year, he had just turned eleven—a particularly awkward age. Though he possessed knowledge beyond his peers, he was still only a child. With such a small body, there was little he could do but grow up safely.
Once he reached adulthood, he believed that with his knowledge, while he might not become fabulously wealthy, a bright future was within reach.
After dinner, the children returned to their rooms. Despite the building's age, it offered ample space. Dormitories were shared between two children.
"I really wish we could have something different to eat... Why can't they make cake or something?"
Scott, the yellow-haired boy from earlier, immediately complained upon entering the room—they were roommates.
"Be glad there's anything at all, Scott," Morris replied casually, climbing onto the top bunk without changing clothes.
Scott wasn't wrong. Dinner at this home was monotonous: cheap and filling. Half a year ago, meals had been more varied, but after several caregiver changes, the menu had become predictable.
It didn't matter much to Morris. You couldn't expect caregivers in a children's home full of problem kids to be dedicated. Some might quit in less than two weeks. He was just grateful for the support society and the government offered.
"Oh, right," Scott said, kicking the foot of the bed out of boredom. "Which secondary school are you going to?"
"Northwood Comprehensive Secondary School," Morris replied, resting his hands behind his head and staring at a crack in the ceiling.
"Ah, I knew it!" Scott exclaimed. "That's the best school. Your grades are definitely good enough."
There was no jealousy in his tone. In this home, Morris was exceptional—always quietly finishing thick, challenging books, and frequently scoring 'A's on his homework.
"Mm," Morris hummed vaguely, humoring his roommate.
Studying was all he could do for now. Not just for a brighter future, but for scholarships. Alone, a single scholarship wasn't much—but accumulated over time, it could provide a significant fund for university or investment.
He didn't dislike studying. Reading was one of his great pleasures. With his current learning progress, he expected no problems entering university straight from secondary school.
Clang!
Scott's muttering was interrupted by a sudden noise from the window. The loose frame had been blown open by a gust of wind, slamming against the wall. The glass vibrated with a sharp, tooth-aching sound.
Naturally, Scott, on the bottom bunk near the window, had to handle it.
"Dammit," he muttered, scratching his hair irritably. "This crappy window's broken three times this week! Gets fixed, breaks again—no one cares…"
Then came the sound of flapping wings.
"Morris! There's a letter for you!"
Heart racing, Morris jumped from the top bunk. Scott stood dumbfounded, holding a thick envelope, staring in disbelief.
"You might not believe me if I say it, Morris," Scott said, still shocked, "but a cat with wings just threw this through the window."
A cat with wings? Morris's heart skipped a beat. He quickly took the envelope from Scott's hand.
It was heavy parchment, slightly yellowed, old-fashioned, and clearly high quality. On the front, in emerald green ink, was written:
[No. 34 Ashley Street, Ashley Children's Home, Second Floor East Dormitory, Top Bunk by the Window, To Mr. Morris Black]
The back bore a large seal of dark red wax, embossed with a shield-shaped crest. At the center were four animals: a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake. They surrounded an exquisite letter 'H'.
Without hesitation, Morris tore open the envelope.
"..."
He didn't move for a long moment. Scott leaned over curiously.
"What is it? Who sent it? That symbol looks really weird…"
Morris finally spoke, voice calm but firm:
"Scott, I might... not be going to Northwood Comprehensive Secondary School anymore."