On August 15, 1988, the sunlight gently poured over the quiet and peaceful earth, coating everything with a thin layer of golden radiance.
Inside St. Paul's Cathedral, Sister Nancy's gaze was firm, but her eyes were red and bloodshot with unconcealed worry, her lips were trembling slightly, and her steps were slightly heavy. She walked slowly towards the priest.
Standing in front of the priest, she took a deep breath and said in a determined tone, "Father, I am applying to you to go to the children's home."
The priest finished his prayer before speaking slowly, "Can you tell me the reason? Know that the Abbot of Deland has always recognized your piety." The priest paused briefly and hesitated for a moment before continuing, "She has applied to the Church on several occasions for you to take over her duties when she is called by the Lord's grace."
"The number of applications to become foster families in the Sheridan area has dropped dramatically, and a number of families who had applied have withdrawn midway through the process." Nancy frowned with worry.
"Malicious rumors spread quickly like the plague, saying that having a child would bring calamity to the foster family, and the family in question would either go bankrupt in their business, or their members would become seriously ill, or even the entire family's financial situation would collapse. These unfounded rumors, however, imprisoned people's kindness like heavy shackles, making the situation more and more difficult."
Nancy's brows furrowed, her gaze filled with thought, "Father, I think there must be some misunderstanding here, or maybe even someone deliberately creating falsehoods to sabotage the foster family's plans. You know very well that Pastor John has put too much effort into this matter."
After saying that, Nancy lowered her head, seemingly remembering certain past events, her voice lowered, "This is how Sister Teresa saved me in the first place, I can't just stand by and watch the child suffer from unwarranted accusations, I should go and solve this matter, I ask for your favor."
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After becoming the director of the Sheridan District Children's Home, Sister Nancy worked non-stop to visit a number of families who had withdrawn their applications, bent on unraveling the mystery behind what was going on.
"Ever since that freak entered the home, it was as if our family was cursed and we never had another day of peace. One night, the whole family went to bed, but suddenly heard a clanking sound from the kitchen. I bravely went over to take a look, and the pots and pans were like out-of-control objects flying haphazardly through the air, and the frightening scene was worse than the scariest movie ever made!"
"Sister Nancy, that child was a demon from hell! One day I got up at night and actually saw a strange light flickering in his room, and when I approached it, there was nothing there. Since then, I've been haunted by evil spirits, and I've had nightmares every day, and I've been near a nervous breakdown!"
"I've heard of too many of these weird things, and although we want to help our children, we don't want to put our own family members at risk. Unless that monster is no longer on the government's random assignment list, family is more important than kindness."
Each time she listened to the narrative, Nancy's brow furrowed with confusion, growing more and more puzzled by this.
At the end of each interview, she pressed the interviewee with a grave and eager look, "And who specifically was injured as a result?"
"..." However, most of the interviewees were evasive and evasive, and did not give a positive answer, some were evasive, some kept rubbing their hands together; the rest were just racking their brains and pulling the wool over their eyes to attribute all the unfortunate events to an innocent child. The rest of us are just racking our brains and pulling the strings to blame all the misfortunes on an innocent child.
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"Jack! Will you hurry up! I don't want to be in the same room with this monster for another moment! Don't dilly-dally with your damn coat! How important can this be!" Mrs. Smith's eyes widened in anger and she yelled at her husband, her face full of fury, as if a bear was about to burst into flame.
"Well, well, my Imperial Highness." Mr. Smith grabbed a coat haphazardly, muttering under his breath, and busily followed his wife, running towards the door with hasty steps.
As the two ran to the stairway, Mr. Smith braked hard, and the inertia caused Mrs. Smith, who was being pulled by him, to nearly fall.
Mrs. Smith, who hadn't yet stabilized herself, immediately cursed, "What the hell are you damned guys up to? Have you gone soft again, you coward!" Her voice echoed in the narrow stairwell with sharp anger.
Smith met the insults and said to his wife, "You're not still going to keep his stuff in secret, are you?!" His eyes revealed a hint of skepticism and nervousness, his eyebrows furrowed slightly, and a fine bead of sweat oozed from his forehead.
"This ... You have to realize, that glove is that man's! My God, do you know exactly how much it's worth?" Mrs. Smith's eyes were fixed on her husband with a greedy gleam in them, and her lips trembled slightly, as if she could not part with the glove and feared her husband's wrath at the same time.
Mr. Smith interrupted her gruffly, snarling with anger in his eyes, "Either you get your stuff out of here now, or you get the hell out of here when I send him back! I've had enough of your stupid woman!" His neck was bruised and his voice was so loud it seemed to shatter the walls of the stairwell.
Looking at her fuming husband, Mrs. Smith helplessly folded back into the room and carefully removed a velvet jewelry box from the innermost part of the cabinet, opened it, and eased out a pair of black gloves embellished with tiny pearls.
Her fingers gently rubbed the pearls on the gloves as if she were caressing a precious work of art, her eyes full of reluctance.
Her footsteps dragged, each step was as heavy as lead, full of hope that her husband said "do not have to return. Unfortunately, the miracle did not come.
Under the pull of Mr. Smith, the two finally came to the closed door.
Mr. Smith gripped his wife's arm so tightly that she frowned. His breathing was rapid and heavy, and his heart beat like a drum roaring in his ears.
"Jack! Open the door, remember! You're the one who applied, you're the one who got this trouble into the house! You have to deal with it!" Mrs. Smith, still angry from the aftermath of what had just happened, once again kept up her accusations. Her fingers kept gesticulating and waving randomly in the air, as if it would add to the intensity of her words.
Mr. Smith took a deep breath and slowly pushed the door open, speaking warily in a gentle and almost curt tone that he had never seen before.
"You see, Mr. Michael, I've had some recent changes in my family, and I'm just not in a position to take better care of you." He barely managed to squeeze out a smile on his face, but it seemed very stiff, and his eyes were filled with uneasiness as he flicked from time to time to a tiny figure in the depths of the darkened room, watching for his reaction.
"In order not to affect your life, I have no choice but to suspend the contract, I hope you don't mind. I'm sure the government will help you find a more suitable family, and we'll be sure to return these gloves." Mr. Smith's throat swallowed involuntarily as he spoke, the knots of his throat rolling up and down. His hands were clenched so tightly that his fingers were a little white from the exertion.
At this point, Mr. Smith swallowed nervously a few times before struggling to get out the last few words, "Now we're taking you back to the children's home." His voice trembled slightly, as if it were a falling leaf in the wind.
At this moment, the space seemed to freeze, and the sound of Mr. Smith swallowing his saliva was clearly audible in the silence. Perhaps it was due to this overly quiet atmosphere, Mrs. Smith was agitated again, but she didn't have the courage to break this tranquility, and could only stare fiercely at Mr. Smith as a means of venting her heart's dissatisfaction.
A few moments later, a voice that was neither high-pitched nor low, just right, came from inside the room to the ears of the two people outside the door.
"Thank you for taking care of me for this period of time, I accept all the arrangements, and I apologize for the trouble I have caused you."
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Nancy, who had been traveling and investigating for several days in a row, now returned to the children's home with a weary and exhausted face. She dragged her legs, which seemed like lead, slowly towards the office, ready to reorganize the information.
Suddenly, a caregiver came flying up to her, shouting at the top of her lungs as she ran.
"Dean Nancy, that freak is being sent back again! You get an idea!"
Nancy gritted her teeth, steeled her nerves, and walked quickly to the door.
Nancy, who came to the door, saw a car speeding like lightning, which was so fast that it was mind-bogglingly fast, and braked in a panic when it arrived at the gate of the institution.
A little boy was pushed out swiftly, and then the car left as fast as an arrow, as if it couldn't wait to get rid of a terrible disaster.
Witnessing the vehicle speeding away, Nancy hastily turned her attention to the child being pushed out.
The child was as calm as a still lake, his hands methodically braced on the ground, his legs steadily exerting force, slowly climbing up, his movements calm and collected.
Afterwards, he gently raised his hand, one after another patting the dust on his body, that patting the dust movement gently and skillfully, the expression on his face is not happy and not sad, as if a pool of stagnant water, no ripples, as if he has long been accustomed to this kind of encounter.
Then, he stood quietly on the side of the road, motionless, like a stone statue frozen in time, emitting a lonely and indifferent atmosphere, as if out of place in this noisy world.
His eyebrows are thick, his eyes are large, his thin lips are pursed into a line, and his straight nose makes his face look even thinner.
This face reminded one easily of granite, stubborn, strong and cold, as if he had accepted all the arrangements of fate and was indifferent to everything, even himself.
Nancy seemed to see his own childhood, once countless times to fight as hard as possible, but still unable to resist the cruel fate of the fiddling, only with a heart full of despair and helplessness, to accept the fate imposed all the tragic and unfortunate.
Like a drowning person on the verge of suffocation in the shocking waves, the body in the water rises and falls, as if at any time will be swallowed mercilessly by the bottomless abyss.
Nancy gently walked towards the boy's body, slowly squatted down, her gaze filled with compassion and determination.
Her movements were as gentle as a breeze, but as careful as if she was holding the most precious treasure in the world, just as when Sister Teresa embraced her own self in the abyss of helplessness, gently but tightly embracing the child into her arms.
That embrace contained endless strength and warmth, as if she wanted to pass on all her love and courage to him without reservation.
"I know that you are an immensely strong child, and this will be your forever home from now on, I solemnly promise you as a nun and a Mother Superior."
Nancy's gaze was firm and her tone solemn and resolute as she told the child this promise. "May I have a quiet whisper of your name? My child." Nancy's voice grew softer and gentler, like a gentle breeze on a spring day.
The boy, in receiving Nancy's warm and gentle embrace, as well as a voice full of concern, the face that was as stiff and cold as an ice sculpture finally slowly revealed a long-lost, as bright as the first melting of ice and snow, smile.
"My name is Michael Foster, I picked this name myself." The boy's voice was soft, but it carried a hint of imperceptible joy and anticipation.
"Someone as warm as you has embraced me like this in the past, he said he could sense my pain, that he understood, that he cared about us forgotten angels." The boy's eyes shimmered with a little shimmer, as if he was remembering that warm but distant past.
"I want to be like him."