William was standing at the edge of the orphanage lawn, his red eyes shifted back to the nun's soft, open gaze. She was waiting, her hand still extended, her face soft and inviting, like a warm light calling to him from far away. For a moment, his wariness appeared to falter, that perpetual tension in his slight frame easing, as if some unseen weight were lifting. His fingers twitched in his pockets as if considering hesitantly whether to force that space between them.
He took one step forward, then another. Each footfall was hesitant, as if his feet were being driven by his brain but a decision was needed for every step, carrying him deeper into a trust he wasn't quite sure she deserved. The nun's eyes clouded with something he had not seen in far, far too long--belonging to him unconditionally. She didn't say a word; she didn't push the issue but just waited patiently, the silence a promise of safety that he'd never known.
When he finally reached her, she squatted down, her gaze aligned to his. Close up, he could see the fissures at the corners of her eyes, the finest lines around a mouth that had smiled often in kindness and service, something about that softening his rigid defenses further. Her hand, weathered but firm, stretched extended a little closer, a bridge he could cross whenever he chose.
On an exhalation that came out shakier than he'd anticipated, he drew his hand from his pocket; pale fingers extended to meet hers. Her hand was warm, grounding, and he felt the slightest tremor in his as he allowed her to guide him gently toward the open doors of the orphanage. Inside, the light was soft and golden, spilling warmth into the night air, filling him with a strange, aching sense of home.
They walked down the dark hall together, side by side, her hand sure on his shoulder to guide him past the silent dormitories into a tiny, quiet room ready just for him. There, he had a simple bed, a folded quilt, and a window overlooking the garden, a place that could be called his own, for a time at least.
The Sister stepped back, giving him space, her voice low and soft. "Rest, child. You're safe here."
The boy nodded a little, his eyes drifting to the quilt as the tension in his stomach began to unwind and release. Tentatively, yes, but it was real. For the first time, he let his eyes shut in a place that had no danger in it, no threats concealed behind the walls. He eased onto the bed, listening to her soft footsteps fade down the corridor, withdrawing him into this silence, soft and pervasive. And as he drifted off to sleep, he felt a small but undeniable sense of belonging-a flicker of peace he had almost forgotten could exist.
As William lay in the little bed, staring up at the ceiling with the faint outline of the quilt tucked under his chin, the thoughts swirled in a silent, jumbled haze. The softness of the bed felt foreign against his body; he was used to the hard ground, the cold air, a world that demanded alertness all the time. His mind was screaming at him to stay awake, to listen for every creak and groan of this building, to be ready at a second's notice to flee. But here…he couldn't find any sense of menace. Only silence and chattering by the kids outside the orphanage
The nun's face lingered in his mind's eye, a gentle face, the eyes warm and steady, not harsh or scrutinizing as he had come to accept over time. He didn't know what to make of her. Nobody had ever looked at him that way since he came here as if he were breakable, something worthy of concern and care. He didn't know why in the world she would want to try to help him. A twinge of guilt arose with having trusted her, a hint of shame that he had lowered his guard, even if for a moment. What if this was a trap too, one of those blips of goodness before the really bad stuff?
But even as he told himself that, his eyelids began to droop, and a strange reluctant comfort stole over him, loosening his guard all the more. So long had he been wandering without a home, drifting from here to there with no one and nothing to hold him fast. And now he was beginning, almost desperately, to wonder if maybe… just maybe… he could stay here. If this place, with its quiet rooms and warm lights, might be the home he'd lost in the blink of an eye.
It scared him. To want a place to belong, felt dangerous, like a door he wasn't sure he should open. But lying there in the gentle darkness, he let himself imagine what it might be like to have people around who wouldn't vanish or hurt him, who might let him stay, let him feel safe. And as he drifted closer to sleep, the thought lingered, quiet and soft: "Maybe this time, I won't have to run."