Life in the orphanage was a fragile and careful experience for the little boy: a world of routines, of silent boundaries he created for himself. Every morning, he would wake up before all the other children could get out of bed and watch the dawn at his small window. He liked the quiet before anyone else was up, that short moment of being alone took him back to the life he'd known before, a life on the edge where silence had been his only friend. He sat at one end of the table throughout breakfast, always a few feet away from the others, observing their laughter and chatter with curiosity and guardedness.
He kept his head down and focused on his food, but he was always listening and watching, taking in the rhythms of their lives like a language he had to learn again. He spoke very little, answering all questions with his nod or word, but the caretakers soon realized he was observant: always aware of the needs of others and ready, willing to assist in case anyone got injured or in trouble, would disappear immediately when attention was focused on him. He would often retreat to the more quiet corners of the orphanage during the day, finding his refuge in the old library from time to time, where he'd trace his fingers over worn book spines, read stories of heroes and strange lands, and get lost in pages that spoke of adventure and belonging.
The other children were curious about him; he was the boy with the strange, pale hair and red eyes, like something out of those very stories. They sometimes tried to talk to him, invite him into their games, but he was quick to pull away, the faintest trace of fear flickering in his eyes as he returned to his self-imposed distance. But at times, in transit moments, he abandoned his defenses.
At night, at times, he would lie listening to the lulling sounds of the orphanage: the softish rustling of blankets, the muffled laughter from the rooms down the hall, the warmth of lives lived together. He found himself drifting closer to these sounds, though he'd retreat the moment someone noticed. He would lie awake, playing back bits of gentle words, hands extended, speculating about what it would feel like to finally be among them. Yet in this distance, caretakers saw a gentleness in him.
They knew he was haunted by some secret in his past he did not speak of, but they gave him space, knowing trust couldn't be forced. Sometimes in the evening, the nun who had taken him in first would sit in silence beside him, comfortable, soft reading to herself, giving companionship without demand. At those times, he allowed himself to relax at least a little, taking comfort in something he couldn't identify. In the orphanage, he was learning slowly, cautiously that maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to be alone. It was a fragile, hesitant kind of life, but with each passing day, he started to feel like this place could be home if only he could allow himself to believe in such a thing.
Unspeaking mystery, this boy was in school remaining at the fringes, where shadows seemed to fall in comfortably around him, like an old cloak. Exquisitely cautious, he oozed into class when the ringing of the school bell would engage his schoolmates and slipped into the last row, where he could observe without drawing attention. His presence was more the absence of presence, silent, hardly ever raising his hand or speaking out, yet whose eyes, red from not having enough rest, flickered with alertness to suggest he missed nothing.
In class, he excelled in his own silent way, often finishing assignments quicker, his notes meticulously neat, and his mind sharp. Teachers were curious, sometimes a little unsettled, at his intensity. They'd ask him questions, but his answers were right, though few, and given in a voice so low that it almost blended into the silence of the place. He had a quick mind that was good at turning pieces of a puzzle together but always hung back, perhaps being cautious not to be outstanding.
Other students watched him with fascination and unease. His white hair and piercing red eyes made him different and gave him an aura of mystery that kept most kids away. Some were attracted to him, sensing beneath his quiet a silence-a silent power appealing-but to most he was unsettlingly silent, and a few whispered rumors: ghost in flesh, an albino with magical powers, a boy who'd once lived in the woods alone. The rumors were weird, wild things, and he paid no attention to those. He had learned a long time ago to let words roll off him like water, too accustomed to being alone to be rattled by it.
When people at school tried to make conversation with him, he was always polite but seemed to keep a part of himself reserved, answering just enough to avoid drawing attention from anyone. He kept to himself, slipping away during breaks to find a quiet spot under the bleachers or some shadowed corner of the schoolyard, where he'd read or sketch faint ghostly landscapes-scenes of places he'd been or imagined-his hands moving with quiet purpose as he escaped into a world of his own making.
But at times, the pang of loneliness stung sharper when he would see groups of friends laughing together, a fluidity in their contact, a warmth. He would wonder what it was like, pushing your way into them, allowing yourself to be enveloped, swaddled by something, but something deeply cautious inside stopped him. He was afraid they wouldn't understand, finding his silences unsettling, his past too much of a mystery for their bright, uncomplicated lives.
Yet, however lonely he was, deep inside a part of him yearned to belong, to understand the feeling of sharing a joke and walking with someone and not having the urge to disappear into the crowd. The school was an odd world, a place where he was visible and invisible, a silent ghost passing through a world of life and laughter, silently waiting for the day that he might step out of his shadows and into the warmth.
After classes, he would always be met with a few bullies who felt angered by his existence his silent nature his way of drawing people to him, and his uncanny resemblance to the wanted boy. Their punches did little to no damage at all to him they were a step down from the drunk men who thrashed him when he was still in the streets. And they would always heal before he got back to the orphanage.
And for the next ten years, this was his life. The life that slowly but surely whittled down his insurmountable defenses.