As far as Noel could remember, he had always been alone. The orphanage, while a place of shelter, was never a place of warmth— not for him, at least.
The other children avoided him, like he was carrying some invisible storm cloud that might drench them in gloom if they came too close.
The caretakers tried their best, speaking to him gently every day, but their words seemed to bounce off the thick, quiet barrier he'd built around himself. They smiled at him with that particular mix of pity and patience reserved for problems they couldn't solve.
Loneliness wasn't something Noel chose; it was simply his state of being, like breathing or blinking. At first, he hated it. He envied the other children with their easy laughter and noisy friendships. But over time, he began to see his solitude differently. Isolation wasn't an empty room; it was a canvas, waiting for him to paint something worthwhile.
