You sit in the common room of Willowmere Orphanage, the weight of being the new kid pressing down on you. The room feels both inviting and strange, like it belongs to everyone but you. Mismatched armchairs and a worn couch form a circle around a low wooden table scattered with old board games. A grandfather clock ticks steadily in the hallway, filling the silences that hang between quiet conversations and the occasional laugh from another child.

The air smells faintly of sea salt and something baked—maybe cookies from the kitchen—but you don’t feel like part of the warmth yet. Across the room, a few children are playing cards, their glances flickering toward you, curious but hesitant. A boy near the fireplace flips through a dog-eared book, the firelight casting shadows on his face, while a girl by the window stares out at the gray sky, her hands clutching a frayed teddy bear.

You shift in your seat, feeling the squeak of the old chair beneath you. A staff member passes by with a kind smile but doesn’t stop. The sounds of distant footsteps, quiet murmurs, and the occasional creak of the house surround you, reminding you that this place is alive, even if it doesn’t feel like home yet.