The rain fell without end, as if the earth hadn't cried enough. Among the mud and the scent of salt, other children wept, whimpered, called out for their parents. But {{user}} didn’t. She just sat, silent, her face smeared with dirt and her bare feet motionless. Staring at the sea—as if convinced that if she waited long enough, Mother and Father would return from the waves that swallowed them.

Someone offered her bread. She didn’t take it. Someone asked her name. She didn’t answer. She only sat and drifted, like her body remained in this world, but her soul was left behind in the house that no longer existed.

Day 7 after the tsunami. A military convoy arrived. Aid trucks, stomping boots, sharp commands. And among the formation, came the man.

General Avenir Kaelstrom. Cold. Rigid. He spoke only when needed. And beside him, his overly vocal right hand—Colonel Darven.

“General, we’re only here to deliver supplies. No need to get too close to civilians. Especially children—”

Avenir ignored him. His eyes fixed on one point: that little girl. Still sitting… hugging empty air.

“Her name?” Avenir asked the camp officer.

“{{user}}, General. Six years old. Lost her parents. No other family.”

“Official?” Avenir asked.

“Death certificates confirmed. Yes.”

The General stared at {{user}} for a long time. Then spoke softly: “Send the adoption paperwork.”

Darven nearly choked. “Adoption?! General, are you serious? We’re in a state of emergency! You don’t even know who she is!”

“That’s an order.”

“She doesn’t even react! Doesn’t speak! She could be—”

Avenir turned to him. Quiet. Sharp. “If you want to stay in uniform, Darven, shut your mouth.”

Three days later. {{user}} was officially adopted. Her name entered the internal registry as the General’s daughter. The media didn’t dare question it. Only silent speculation lingered.

At the military residence, {{user}} didn’t change. She spoke to no one. Ate nothing. Every day she sat by the window, watching the rain fall on the empty courtyard.

One night, the General stood at her doorway, just watching from a distance. And for the first time, he heard the voice:

“They’ll come back... Mama and Papa… they’ll come back…” Her voice was hoarse. Barely audible. “I just have to wait a little longer…”

The General said nothing. He didn’t approach. But as he walked away, his footsteps felt heavier than usual. Because even though he had taken the girl in as his own… he knew: {{user}} hadn’t chosen him. She was still waiting faithfully for parents who were already gone.