When I arrive at the church, the air feels different—quieter, calmer, like the weight of the world can't quite reach this place. The building itself is modest, with tall wooden doors and faded carvings of angels and saints flanking its entrance. The faint scent of candles and incense drifts through the air, mixing with the distant hum of children's laughter.
I push the door open, the heavy wood creaking slightly as I step inside. The light filtering through the stained-glass windows casts colorful patterns on the stone floor, shifting as I walk toward the front of the nave.
I slide onto one of the wooden benches near the altar, leaning back slightly as I take in the quiet. The silence here is different—softer, less oppressive than the silence I crave. It's... tolerable.
After a moment, a young sister approaches me. Her soft footsteps echo faintly in the stillness. She's petite, with a kind face and hands that are slightly rough—likely from tending to chores around the church.
"What do you want, little one?" she asks, her tone gentle but curious.
"I want to meet Father Eldric," I reply, keeping my voice steady.
She clasps her hands in front of her, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Oh, Father Eldric isn't here right now," she says. "He went into town this morning. Should be back by evening."
"No problem, sister," I reply, nodding. "I'll wait."
The sister tilts her head slightly, studying me for a moment. "You came all this way just to see him? That's unusual. Most children your age avoid the Father unless they're dragged here."
"I'm not most children," I say simply, meeting her gaze.
She chuckles softly, but doesn't push the subject. "And what will you do while you wait?"
I glance toward the back of the church where the faint sounds of laughter and chatter filter through. "Where are the children? I'd like to play with them."
Her smile widens slightly, her expression softening. "The orphans are in the back garden. You'll find them there."
"Thank you, sister," I say, standing up and making my way toward the back door.
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Orphans. You can find them in any church, anywhere in the world. The forgotten, the abandoned, the overlooked. But if you look closely—if you search just right—you might find something precious.
Diamonds in the rough.
The garden hums with energy as I step outside. The sun casts a warm glow over the grassy yard, and laughter ripples through the air. A group of children is scattered across the space, their clothes a patchwork of wear and tear, their faces smudged with dirt but alight with life.
The moment I appear, the activity slows. Some of the children pause mid-play, their wide eyes flicking toward me with curiosity, while others ignore me completely, too absorbed in their games to care about the newcomer.
Perfect.
I let my gaze sweep over them, assessing. Children are easier to read than adults—there's no filter, no walls. They show who they are without realizing it.
It's time to see if there are any diamonds in my field.
A boy, maybe nine, stands near the center of the garden. His posture is tall, almost puffed up, and he commands the space like it belongs to him. His hair is wild, his clothes a little better kept than the others. He shouts at another boy, who's about his age, waving his arms as if giving orders. Leader type, I note. Confident, loud, but there's a sharpness to him, like he's testing everyone around him.
The boy he's shouting at seems less inclined to follow. This one has a defiant look in his eyes, his arms crossed as he stares back. His clothes are rougher, his movements slower but deliberate. He doesn't respond to the shouting; instead, he turns away, kicking at the dirt.
Rebel. Won't follow orders, but he's not reckless. Reserved, calculating.
In the corner, a tiny girl sits on the grass. She's no older than three, her chubby hands busily stacking small stones into a crooked tower. Her face is scrunched in concentration, completely oblivious to the world around her. She doesn't even glance at the boys arguing nearby.
Focused. Quiet. Independent.
Not far from her, I notice a pair of children—a boy and a girl, maybe seven and six. The boy keeps glancing around, his sharp eyes scanning the garden like he's on alert. The girl sits beside him, drawing patterns in the dirt with a stick. He taps her shoulder occasionally, and she responds with a small nod, her expression calm but distant.
Are they siblings?
I watch closely. The boy's gestures are protective, his body angled slightly in front of the girl, like a shield. She doesn't speak or look at me, even when her brother does. He signs something to her—a quick motion with his hands—and she nods again.
Sign language? Deaf?
The pieces click together. She's not ignoring me—she doesn't hear me. And the boy… he's her voice.
At the far end of the garden, leaning against the wall, is a boy about eight years old. His arms are crossed, his gaze steady and unblinking. He watches everything—the arguments, the games, the movements of the others—with a sharpness that stands out. He hasn't joined any group, hasn't spoken, but his eyes linger on me a little too long.
Observer. Detached, but aware. Dangerous if underestimated.
I take a step forward, letting my boots crunch against the gravel path. The sound pulls their attention. Slowly, heads turn toward me, curiosity flickering in their eyes.
"Hey!" I call out, keeping my tone light but confident. "Who wants candy?"
That gets their attention.
The nine-year-old "leader" boy is the first to respond, stepping forward with an eager grin. "Candy? What kind?"
"Good ones," I reply, pulling a small cloth pouch from my pocket. I shake it slightly, letting the sound of the candies inside draw them closer.
The younger kids perk up immediately. The three-year-old abandons her stone tower, toddling closer with wide, curious eyes. The siblings glance at each other—first the boy, who nudges the girl and signs something quickly, then the girl, who looks up with mild interest.
Even the rebel looks over, his arms still crossed but his gaze drawn to the pouch. The observer at the back doesn't move, but his eyes narrow slightly, watching.
"You want some?" I ask, letting the smile linger on my face. "Come on, it's a game. Winners get candy. Losers… well, you don't want to lose, do you?"
The leader boy smirks, clearly liking the sound of competition. "What's the game?"
The children gather around me in a loose circle, their faces a mixture of curiosity and excitement. The candy pouch dangles from my hand, and their eyes flick to it often, the prize they're all eager to claim.
"Alright," I say, letting the tension build for a moment. "Here's how the game works: I'll pick someone to be the leader. The leader does a movement—any movement—and everyone else has to copy it exactly. But here's the catch: if you mess up the sequence, even a little, you're out. The last one standing wins the candy."
The leader boy—who I've already labeled as confident, eager, but a bit reckless—grins and steps forward immediately. "I'll go first!"
"Not so fast," I say, holding up a hand to stop him. "You'll get your turn, but let's start with someone else." I glance at the three-year-old girl, who's been watching with wide, curious eyes. "You."
Her face lights up, and she toddles into the circle, her little hands clasped together in excitement. The other kids exchange looks—some amused, some skeptical—but no one says anything.
"Alright, you're the leader," I tell her, crouching down to her level. "Show us what to do."
She thinks for a moment, her chubby face scrunching up in concentration, then claps her hands twice, slowly.
The circle mimics her, their movements exaggerated to match her pace. She claps again, this time adding a stomp of her foot.
"Got it!" the leader boy calls out, copying her easily. The older kids follow suit, though one of the boys mutters under his breath, "This is too easy."
The three-year-old keeps going, her movements simple but deliberate. She claps, stomps, and spins in a slow circle. It's adorable, but more importantly, it shows me something about her: she's determined and focused, even if she doesn't fully understand the stakes.
Eventually, she messes up her own sequence, clapping twice instead of once. The kids burst into laughter, and she pouts but doesn't cry. "Out!" the leader boy says with a grin, pointing at her.
She toddles back to her spot on the grass, sitting down with a huff, but I catch the faint smile on her face. She's stubborn but resilient. She'll hold her ground when it matters.
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"Alright, your turn," I say, pointing to the leader boy.
He steps into the circle, puffing out his chest. "Watch this!" he declares, then claps his hands three times, stomps twice, and jumps in the air.
The group follows, the movements easy enough to mimic. But then he picks up the pace, adding faster claps and sudden twists. Two kids stumble out of sync, and he immediately points them out. "Out!" he shouts, grinning triumphantly.
"Show-off," mutters the rebel boy, his arms crossed. He doesn't stumble, though, keeping up with the leader's pace.
The leader keeps pushing, but his movements are big and obvious—designed to impress, not confuse. Eventually, he trips over his own sequence, clapping when he should have stomped.
"Ha! You're out!" the rebel boy says, a smirk spreading across his face.
The leader boy groans, stepping back into the circle. "Fine, whatever. I'll win next time."
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I point to the rebel boy next. "Your turn."
He steps forward without a word, his expression calm but focused. His movements are smaller, sharper—he taps his foot twice, snaps his fingers, then shifts his weight subtly from one leg to the other.
It's harder to follow. Two kids mess up almost immediately, including the leader boy, who glares at him.
"You're making it too tricky!" the leader protests.
"That's the point," the rebel replies coolly. "If you can't keep up, you're out."
I smirk, watching the dynamic unfold. The rebel is precise and efficient, eliminating players without wasting effort. When the game ends, he steps back without fanfare, his expression neutral. Confident but not loud. Strategic. Plays to win but doesn't need the spotlight.
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The siblings go next. The boy leads first, keeping his movements simple—clapping, waving, stomping—clearly designed so his sister can follow. I notice him glancing at her often, checking to make sure she's keeping up.
When it's her turn, she hesitates, looking up at him for reassurance. He nods, signing something quick and subtle, and she smiles before stepping forward.
Her movements are soft and deliberate—tapping her fingers together, raising her arms slowly, turning in place. The group follows easily, but what catches my attention is her brother. He's not just copying her; he's watching her closely, ready to jump in if she falters.
Protective. Loyal. A team through and through.
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Finally, the observer steps forward.
"I'll go," he says quietly, his voice calm but firm.
He moves into the center, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. His first movement is subtle—a slight tilt of his head.
The group hesitates, unsure if that's part of the sequence. Then he taps his fingers against his leg, shifts his weight, and takes a small step back.
It's almost too subtle. Two kids are eliminated immediately, and the leader boy glares at him.
"That's not fair!" the leader complains.
"Pay attention," the observer replies evenly, his tone unbothered.
His movements grow more complex, but they're never exaggerated. He's testing them, catching mistakes before they realize they've made them.
When the game ends, he glances at me, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He knows I've been watching, studying them.
"You're not just here to play games," he says quietly, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
I nod slightly, acknowledging his observation. "And you're not just here to follow the rules."
The unspoken agreement passes between us. This one's different.
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The game ends with laughter and groans as the kids divide the candy. Some are thrilled, others pout, but they're already asking to play again.
As I watch them, I let a small smile tug at my lips. This is just the beginning.