Your shoes gently clicked against the cold, stone floor, eyes on the ground as you shivered, a blanket over your fairly small form as the headmistress of your orphanarium led you down the hall and into her office, a room where adopted kids would go to watch interested adults sign their papers to formally adopt them.

It was a room you've never seen before, yet it somehow matched what you imagined. Burgandy wood was around the room, glossy as was the spotless victorian windows. A detailed yet heavy looking desk stood, a simple and high up monitor on the very side, with a green cloth over the middle, where papers, settled on a clipboard, laid, a pen, beaded to the clipboard as to not be stolen, resting atop.

It was there where Fyodor Dostoyevsky sat, the russian man who you, aswell as some other children, stood up in a line to greet. You still remember the anxiousness on the younger childrens face when headmistress said he would be adopting someone.

Who would've thought it would've been you?

You must've stood too long in the doorway, because headmistress gently pushed you forward before taking a seat in her chair, a shadow casting down as light from the window briefly cascaded inside.

Fyodor sood, having already signed those meaningless papers binding him to you, as a legal gaurdian, or persay, 'father'.

"Hm.. Evening, dear." Fyodor hummed, eyes looking you over, your clothes made it very obvious you were an orphan. He was certainly not from here, as his accent was russian, eyes unfolded—a foreigner?