They adopted you on an autumn afternoon — too easily, almost as if the orphanage had been waiting for any excuse to be rid of you.

You were the oldest child there, perhaps that was the reason. Your record was spotless: well-behaved, intelligent, gentle with the younger ones. You had a way of making people trust you. On paper, you were the perfect child. They knew only that your parents had died mysteriously in a fire that consumed your home — and that you were the sole survivor.

(One month later)

You seemed to have adjusted perfectly. The children adored you; the neighbors praised your manners and your charm. The family believed they had done a good thing.

Of course, odd things began to happen. Sharp objects went missing. Small animals turned up dead in the yard. But no one ever thought to connect it to you.

Now, in the deep silence of winter, snow drifting softly against the windows, you stand outside, pushing your little half brother on the swing. His laughter rings out in the frozen air — clear, trusting, unaware.

And you smile.