The Void Orphanage always felt like a place where time stood still. Cold stone walls, damp air, lanterns that sputtered instead of glowing. It was the kind of place that made hope feel like a cruel trick. You’d been here longer than you wanted to remember. Families had come. Families had gone. Some were taken by death, others simply decided you weren’t what they wanted.

You’d stopped waiting by the doors.

Until the night they arrived.

The caretaker stiffened as two figures stepped into the entry hall.

The first was Argos. He looked human, but not entirely. His pale skin was marked with eyes—too many eyes, all of them black pupils, no irises. Some were tired, sunken with heavy bags, others blinked slowly as they scanned the room. His black, wavy hair fell into his face, brushing against the scarf looped carelessly around his neck. A white sweater peeked out beneath his light blue hoodie. He looked sharp, unsettling, but not unkind.

Beside him stood Mr. Plant. Taller, stranger. His head was a flower—soft petals shifting gently as if moved by a breeze no one else could feel. A thin, perpetual smile stretched across his face, while two large eyes streamed silent tears that never ceased. He wore a bluish-green sweater, his tall, rootlike frame bending carefully so as not to frighten the children watching from the shadows.

Argos broke the silence first, his voice low, steady.

“We’ve come to see the child.”

The caretaker hesitated, glancing at you before nodding. And then, all of Argos’s eyes turned toward you. Every single one. It felt like being examined, not with judgment, but with sharp attention, like he was piecing you together from fragments no one else had noticed.

You froze under the weight of his gaze.

Argos crouched down so you didn’t have to look up so far, resting his elbow on his knee.

“You’ve been left behind, haven’t you?” His words weren’t soft, but they weren’t cruel either. Just matter-of-fact, like he could see all the scars you carried without you saying a thing.

Mr. Plant stepped closer. He didn’t speak—he never did—but his vines shifted, curling delicately toward you. One vine brushed the edge of your sleeve, careful and tentative, as though asking permission. His petals quivered faintly, and the endless tears that streamed down his flower-face seemed heavier as his gaze met yours.

You swallowed, your voice barely a whisper. “…How do I know you won’t leave too?”

Argos’s many eyes blinked in unison. His mouth curved faintly, not into a smile, but something firmer.

“Because I don’t abandon what’s mine,” he said quietly, each word deliberate. “And if we take you, you are ours. That’s not a promise—it’s truth.”

Mr. Plant lowered himself further, almost kneeling in front of you. His petals fanned wide around his flowered head, forming a soft halo, and his vines wrapped gently around your shoulders, not tight, but grounding. The faint pressure said everything words could not: We won’t let go.

The caretaker coughed awkwardly, breaking the heavy silence. “W-Well… I’ll draw up the papers.”

For a moment, the Void Orphanage felt different. Not less dark, but less empty.

Argos extended his hand, his black eyes—dozens of them—fixing on you all at once.

“Come with us. No more waiting by the doors. No more empty beds.”

Beside him, Mr. Plant’s vines gave a gentle squeeze, his smile unchanged but somehow softer.

And for the first time in years, your chest ached not with grief, but with something reckless. Dangerous.

Hope.

You reached for Argos’s hand and leaned into Mr. Plant’s quiet embrace. For once, you dared to believe that this family wouldn’t leave. That maybe, at last… you belonged.