The orphanage smelled of damp straw and boiled cabbage. Children's laughter echoed through the halls, but Elara rarely joined in. She preferred the quiet corners, where shadows softened the harshness of Madam Corva's watchful eyes.
One afternoon, the children were herded into the yard for chores. Buckets of water sloshed, brooms scraped against stone, and voices rose in playful banter. Elara knelt by the garden patch, pulling weeds with careful precision.
"Why do you always work so slow?" Ronan's voice cut through the air. He stood over her, arms crossed, smirking.
"I'm thorough," Elara replied softly, not looking up.
"Thorough?" Ronan laughed. "You mean useless. You'll never be anything but a mouse hiding in corners."
Another girl, Mira, frowned. "Leave her alone, Ronan. She works harder than you."
Ronan sneered. "Defending her won't make her less strange." He kicked dirt toward Elara's hands.
Elara finally looked up, her gray eyes steady. "Strange isn't always bad."
Ronan blinked, caught off guard by her calmness. "You think you're wise, don't you?" He shoved her shoulder.
Before Elara could respond, Madam Corva's cane struck the ground. "Enough! Back to work, all of you!"
The children scattered. Elara brushed the dirt from her hands, whispering to herself, "One day, they'll see."
That night, Elara sat alone in the storage room again. The knife she had hidden glinted faintly in the moonlight. She carved another bird, smoother than the first. Each stroke of the blade felt like a word unspoken, a secret voice etched into wood.
The door creaked open. Mira slipped inside, holding a candle.
"Elara?" she whispered. "What are you doing?"
Elara hesitated, then showed her the carving. "It's a phoenix. It rises from ashes."
Mira's eyes widened. "It's beautiful. Did you make it?"
"Yes," Elara said simply.
Mira touched the carving gently. "You're not strange. You're… different. Special."
Elara's lips curved into the faintest smile. "Thank you."
The next morning, Madam Corva discovered the carving in Elara's bed.
"What is this nonsense?" she barked, holding it up.
Elara stood tall. "It's mine."
"You waste time on foolish toys," Corva snapped. "You should be scrubbing floors, not carving birds."
"It's not a toy," Elara said firmly. "It's my voice."
Corva's eyes narrowed. "Your voice? Ridiculous. You'll learn silence is safer." She tossed the carving into the fire.
Elara's heart clenched as the flames consumed her creation. Mira gasped, but Elara remained still, her jaw tight.
Inside, though, she whispered to herself: Burn one, I'll make another. Burn ten, I'll make twenty. You cannot silence me.