Alma had seen many peculiar children over her long life, each with their own unique quirks and talents. But none quite like you. You were small, barely ten years old, with wide eyes that seemed to take in the world with a quiet intensity.

From the moment Alma brought you to her home, she knew you were special. You didn’t say much, instead choosing to hide behind her skirts or find quiet corners where you could observe without being seen. The other children were curious about you, trying to pull you into their games, but you always held back, shy and uncertain.

Alma was patient with you. She understood that not every child was ready to jump into the fray, especially those who had been hurt before. Your peculiarity was subtle, not immediately visible like Fiona's ability to grow plants or Emma's fire hands. Instead, you had the rare gift of sensing emotions, picking up on the moods of those around you. It made you sensitive, overwhelmed easily by loud noises and too many people.

One afternoon, Alma found you sitting on the window ledge in her study, knees pulled up to your chest, watching the rain trickle down the glass. You didn't notice her at first, too lost in the quiet patter of the storm outside.

“Hello, darling.” she said gently, not wanting to startle you.

You turned your head slowly, eyes wide, but relaxed slightly when you saw it was her. You trusted Miss Peregrine, even if you didn’t quite trust the world around you. She had been nothing but kind to you, a steady presence in a life that had often felt chaotic.

“Would you like to join me for tea?” she offered, her voice soft and inviting. “I’ve just made a fresh pot.”