The years in the orphanage wore on, and Janya Marple's life became increasingly defined by her solitude. By the time she turned fifteen, loneliness had become her constant companion, a presence that clung to her like a shadow. It was not the kind of loneliness that came from being physically alone—there were always other children around, and the staff members, though distant, were there too. No, this was a deeper loneliness, a sense of being fundamentally different, of not belonging in the world around her.
Janya had learned to move through the orphanage as if she were invisible. She had perfected the art of slipping past the noisy groups of children, avoiding the crowded play areas, and finding the quietest corners to retreat into. She was there, but not truly part of anything. The other children had long since stopped trying to include her in their games, their laughter, their small dramas. To them, Janya was an enigma—a girl who didn't speak unless spoken to, who seemed more comfortable in her own company than in theirs.
This isolation didn't bother Janya as much as it might have bothered others. She had grown accustomed to it, had come to accept it as a part of who she was. If she was different, if she didn't fit in with the others, then so be it. She had learned not to expect anything more, had stopped yearning for the connections that came so easily to the other children. Instead, she focused on the things that brought her comfort—her books, her studies, and the small, quiet moments she could claim for herself.
In the silence of her loneliness, Janya found a strange sort of peace. She would sit for hours in the orphanage library, the scent of old books filling the air, the soft light filtering through the dusty windows. Here, in this quiet refuge, she could lose herself in stories that transported her to faraway places, where people like her—a little different, a little odd—could be heroes, could find their place in the world.
The Sound of Silence
But there were times when the silence was too much, when the weight of her loneliness pressed down on her, making it hard to breathe. These moments came in waves, often when she least expected them. They would hit her in the early mornings, when the other children were still asleep, and the orphanage was eerily quiet. Or late at night, when the darkness seemed to close in around her, and the sounds of the outside world felt impossibly distant.
During these times, Janya would find herself longing for something she couldn't quite name. It wasn't just the absence of family or friends—it was the absence of connection, the feeling that she was adrift in a world that didn't understand her and never would. She would lie in her narrow bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling, and feel as if she were the only person in the world.
The nights were the hardest. The darkness seemed to amplify her loneliness, turning it into something almost tangible, something she could feel pressing down on her chest. She would lie awake, listening to the soft snores of the other girls in the dormitory, and wonder if anyone else ever felt as she did—so alone, so disconnected, so out of place. But she never asked. She knew better than to reveal the depths of her loneliness to anyone. The other children would only mock her, and the staff would dismiss her feelings as childish imaginings.
Instead, Janya kept her loneliness to herself, carrying it like a secret burden. She would get up each morning, go through the motions of daily life, and pretend that everything was fine. She had learned to smile when necessary, to nod and respond when spoken to, but there was always a part of her that remained detached, untouched by the interactions that filled her days.