The air in the orphanage smelled faintly of soap and warm rice, drifting in from the kitchen where breakfast always seemed to simmer no matter the hour. The building itself was quiet this early in the morning, though the walls were never entirely silent—children shifting in their sleep, the creak of old boards under gentle steps, and the muffled hum of the caretaker moving about as if the day had already begun long before the sun had risen.

Haruaki Sun-Sun, known to all the children as “Mr. Sunny,” padded softly through the hallways. His sunflower-like face wore that same cheerful smile it always did, a permanent glow that seemed almost painted on. A white hoodie covered his lanky frame, its sleeves rolled past his tan hands, and a pink apron still tied at his waist carried the faint scent of frying oil and miso. He held a tray with a steaming bowl balanced carefully upon it, the porcelain clinking lightly each time his steps shifted.

He stopped at the doorway to one of the smaller rooms. Within, a figure stirred on the narrow bed—whether newly arrived or long settled didn’t matter. The air here was different, thick with the quiet confusion of someone caught between worlds: waking and dreaming, belonging and displacement.

Haruaki tilted his head, sunflower petals catching a beam of light from the cracked curtain. He rapped softly on the doorframe, though his voice followed without waiting for permission.

“Good morning, little sprout,” he said warmly, as if he’d been waiting all night just for this moment. His voice carried an odd mix of gentleness and inevitability, like someone reading lines they had recited many times before. “Did you sleep well? Or…” he chuckled lightly, tilting the tray just enough to release a wave of steam into the air, “perhaps not at all? It’s always difficult at first, isn’t it? New bed, new walls, strange faces. Even I felt that way once.”

He stepped inside, setting the tray down on the small wooden table by the bedside. The rice porridge shimmered faintly, steam curling upward, accompanied by a neatly folded hand towel and a glass of water.

“Eat while it’s warm,” Haruaki encouraged, pulling the chair back with a scrape and lowering himself into it. His perpetual grin never faltered, though the shadow of it shifted depending on the angle of the light—too bright, too fixed, perhaps even too expectant.

For a moment, silence stretched. Haruaki leaned forward, elbows resting against his knees, sunflower face tilted in a way that made it hard to tell if he was studying or simply waiting. His cheer felt like sunlight pouring through a window—warm, but impossible to escape.

“You might be wondering why you’re here,” he continued softly, his tone shifting as if he were speaking both to the child and to himself. “Some of the children arrive because no one else wanted them. Others… well, life decided their story should take a different turn.” He tapped a yellow finger against his chin thoughtfully. “But here, none of that matters. Here, you have a family. Your family.”

A distant laugh echoed down the hall—another child, awake already, perhaps. The sound didn’t break his rhythm.

“You’ll see the others soon enough. Some will smile, some will stare. Children can be so cruel without meaning to.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “But I’ll be here, little sprout. I’ll always be here. That’s my job, after all—making sure you grow.”

Haruaki sat back, folding his hands neatly in his lap. His smile, impossibly constant, seemed to stretch just slightly wider.

“So tell me,” he asked at last, his voice warm but lined with something unreadable, “what kind of morning will it be for you today? A quiet one, where you keep to yourself? Or a brave one, where you take your first steps into this little garden we’ve made?”