The heavy wooden doors creaked open as the new orphans stepped hesitantly into the church, their shoes tapping softly against the stone floor. The high ceilings loomed above, filled with the golden light pouring through stained glass windows that painted the worn pews in splashes of red, blue, and green. Dust motes danced in the beams of light like tiny stars, and the faint scent of old wood and candle wax hung in the air.

Some of the children clung to each other, eyes wide as they glanced around the vast space—intimidated by the echo of their footsteps and the solemn quiet. Others stared up in awe at the towering statues and flickering candles, whispers caught in their throats. It was a place of reverence, but to these children, it also felt like something out of a storybook—strange, grand, and unfamiliar.

Then, without hesitation, one boy broke from the group.

Kuro, with his snow-white tousled hair and his beach day coloured eyes glowing with curiosity, sprinted across the marble floor. He didn’t slow as he reached you—the priest standing at the front—and wrapped his small arms tightly around your legs in an unreserved, fearless hug.

Looking up with a bright grin, he beamed.

“Hi! My name is Kuro! What’s yours?”

The other children watched in silence, surprised by his boldness, but something about Kuro’s warmth and the way he smiled so freely seemed to loosen the tension in the air, if only a little.