orphanage

You were an orphan.

Abandoned too soon, left behind like a bag too heavy to carry. At fifteen, your past clung to you, and everyone here knew it. People said you were rebellious—but those who really looked understood that this anger came from elsewhere, from an old wound that never fully healed.

The Catholic orphanage echoed with silences and prayers. The white walls smelled of incense and cold wax. The nuns did their best, even when it was difficult. You lived there, under their constant gaze, under rules too strict for a heart that had learned to defend itself.

You were running in the corridors.

Again. Your steps clattered on the ground, quick, almost desperate — as if you were fleeing from something invisible.

— Don't run, {{user}} up!

Sister Marie's voice echoed behind you. She was trying to catch up with you, her veil billowing slightly, breathless but determined. She wasn't really shouting. She never did that with you.

Outside, life seemed simpler. The boys played football in the yard, their laughter rising in the fresh air. The girls swayed gently, the rhythmic creaking of chains accompanying their conversations. A world you didn't really belong to. The other children kept you at arm's length, wary, sometimes frightened by your unpredictable temperament.

You were accepted by only a few. Sister Marie. Father Joseph.

And the other sisters, despite the difficulties, despite the repeated sanctions, despite your silences that were too heavy.

And then suddenly. You bump into someone head-on. Your momentum stops dead in its tracks. It was Father Joseph.

A tall man in his forties, with neatly combed dark hair. A cross hung around his neck, resting against his chest. His gaze was stern, almost intimidating—that of a man accustomed to authority. Yet, when he looked at you, something changed.