Sundori's search within the journal for details about Anthony's Club yielded no fruits—no hints of its location, no whispers of contacts. Undeterred, she shifted her focus towards the journal's author, hoping that delving into his past might unearth more clues.
The journal belonged to a special agent whose days of service had faded into history, active some fifty years prior. Were he still among the living, he would be more than 70 years old. His days of operations were way beyond Sundori's knowledge.
The introduction offered little beyond this temporal anchor. Even though the journal had been declassified and stored within the national archives, which, was limited access to people working or researching in the related field, the veil of secrecy that shrouds an agent's personal deeds and missions remained intact, their details obscured from the public record.
Compelled to dig deeper, Sundori poured over the subsequent chapters, each page a doorway into the agent's professional saga and personal odysseys. Yet, as she delved further, a sense of déjà vu crept over her, the narrative eerily mirroring that of a known acquaintance.
The journal's final entries chronicled a harrowing incident: an injury that marred the agent's visage and crippled his left leg, robbing him of his left ear. The severity of his wounds relegated him to the shadows of the agency, his days on the front lines cut short. He was repurposed as a driver, a silent custodian ferrying documents and new recruits, his life of espionage traded for the anonymity of the department's logistics.
On the very last page, a stark warning was penned: "In this profession, trust is a luxury one cannot afford. Appearances are deceiving; the villain may wear a friendly guise, while a hero might be masked by an unseemly exterior. Reserve judgment on others, for things are seldom what they seem."
A recognition sparked within Sundori... The image of a well-known face, marred by injuries, surfaced in her mind. It is him.
---
Sundori had became an orphan in the aftermath of an earthquake of unprecedented magnitude, a calamity that not only took her parents but also her unborn sibling. Her grandmother, who had always shown a marked preference for male heirs, had seldom made the effort to visit Sundori's family, having distanced herself almost completely since Sundori's birth. When the tragedy struck, erasing her immediate family and leaving her an orphan, her grandmother hadn't come forward to claim her, nor had Sundori known how to reach out to her. At just seven years old, the idea of connecting with her distant grandmother felt as unattainable as the moon.
Consequently, Sundori had been placed in an orphanage established for children who had lost their parents in the devastating quake. Unlike the other children, Sundori had rarely cried or lost her temper. She had adhered strictly to the orphanage's regimen: she had always gone to bed on time and quietly, had eaten her meals without complaint, attended her classes, and completed her homework diligently. This behavior had made her a favorite among the teachers, or at the very least, appreciated for being a child who did not cause trouble.
Her exceptional compliance wasn't born out of fear or satisfaction with her life in the orphanage. Rather, it had stemmed from her mother's advice: " Don't cry, Sundori. If you cry, people might not want to be around you. Be nice, and they'll like you." Deep down, Sundori had been craving the love and attention of parents.
Before the earthquake that shook the foundations of her world, Sundori had already been living in the shadow of familial indifference. Her father had never shown her much affection, having been influenced by his mother's superstition that Sundori was an ominous sign for the family simply because she was a girl. After giving birth to Sundori, her mother had been too weak to offer much love or attention, confined mostly to her bed, barely able to care for her family. Her mother's sole expression of love for Sundori had been reminding her constantly to act properly like an adult to be liked by others.
As far as Sundori could remember, she had been lonely. Her parents had never taken her to playgrounds, never bought her toys, and she had never had a birthday party. Yet, she had been an energetic and robust child, spending most of her time outdoors, climbing trees, hiking mountains, swimming in rivers, and even hunting small animals.
Since being placed in the orphanage, Sundori had kept her mother's words close to her heart. She had remained quiet and tearless in the orphanage, desiring to be loved by the teachers.
The love she had longed for finally seemed within reach when a teacher had told Sundori she was summoned to the headmaster's office, indicating she was receiving special treatment reserved for good children. In that office, Sundori had met three adults, a man and two women, whose appearances she could no longer recall clearly after more than twenty years. They had been very ordinary-looking, dressed plainly. But she would never forget the outcome of that meeting, a moment that had set her on a new path.
---
"Sundori, isn't it?" one of the women inquired, her voice laced with a warmth that seemed foreign yet comforting. "We've heard quite a bit about you. About how you've never let tears or tantrums mar your demeanor, but instead, have always carried yourself with grace."
Sundori offered a nod in acknowledgment, her lips sealed in her usual silence. Words had never been her best companions.
"We've come with an offer," the other woman chimed in, her eyes sparkling with an unspoken promise. "In recognition of your commendable conduct, we'd like to extend an invitation to you to join our new school. What do you say?"
"The dining hall at the school is exceptional, serving even afternoon tea, and the chance to forge friendships with children from across the nation awaits you," added the first woman, trying to gauge Sundori's interest as she observed her quiet contemplation.
Food was hardly Sundori's concern, but the prospect of no longer facing her days shrouded in loneliness sparked a flicker of interest. The notion of companionship, of having peers to share in laughter and play, appealed to her young heart. She clung to the belief that a multitude of friends would guarantee never having to be alone.
The first woman, perhaps sensing Sundori's budding curiosity or merely hopeful of her interest, elaborated, "The school offers a plethora of knowledge across various subjects, complemented by an array of physical activities and sports. Excelling in these could earn you accolades and prizes."
"You don't need to worry about tuition or other financial issues, as all expenses are covered by the state," interjected the second woman, though the concept of finances barely scratched the surface of Sundori's youthful concerns.
The caveat, however, came softly but with weight, "The journey to this new chapter means a lengthy separation from your hometown. The school's location is quite distant, and the rigorous schedule is designed to fully immerse you in your studies."
Sundori pondered momentarily over the gravity of such a decision. Probably not a big deal. Her roots in the village felt tenuous at best—without family ties, her connection to the place was as fragile as the memories of those lost. Her parents were gone, although they would not care much about her if alive. Her grandma probably would disavow her if knowing she was not dead in the earthquake. She has no siblings, no relatives, while her childhood friends have been missing since the disaster. Did she have a strong bond already with the orphans in this orphanage? Not yet.
With such simple calculations in mind, She offered a look of quiet resolve, an unspoken assent to the proposed change. Both women smiled back.
Indeed, decades later, the details of her village had blurred into obscurity, its name and location relegated to the recesses of her memory. She had to go through archived documents about the earthquake to locate the proximity of her hometown, where new homes and roads were built after the tragedy. The seismic event had reshaped not just the landscape but her very existence, leaving her origins buried beneath layers of new beginnings. But she was just looking for it out of curiosity, not because of nostalgia.
As Sundori tacitly accepted the offer, the silent man finally spoke, "If you're ready to join us at the new school, please seal your agreement with a fingerprint here." He gestured towards a document, its words a jumble to Sundori's untrained eyes.
But she felt like nothing to lose, and she indeed was open to the idea of going to a new school where she could make more friends. she stepped forward, dipping her thumb into the seal paste, she left a crimson mark on the paper—a simple act that signified the start of an unknown journey.
The man smiled and said to her: "Sundori, welcome to our new school, I am sure you will do great."
"Sundori, welcome to our new school. I am confident you will thrive," the man assured her with a genuine smile.
"You won't need to bring anything; we'll provide all that you require—from clothes to daily necessities. You're ready to leave with us now," the first woman informed her. Sundori nodded. Unlike other children, she had no toys or possessions that tethered her to her past—no favorite toys, no gifts from daddy and mommy, not even a simple snapshot of life before. In her young world, Sundori truly had nothing to lose.