{ Larissa }
~ flashback ~
The storm that night was brutal.
Lightning split the sky as I pulled up to the small, state-run adoption center — an old, underfunded building that looked more like a forgotten office than a place for children. I was still numb when the director called me.
"A child was found. She's… available, if you're still looking."
The speed of it all was unsettling. No waiting lists. No legal hurdles. No preliminary interviews.
Just a phone call.
And Mia.
The lobby was cold when I walked in. Damp air clung to the walls, and the fluorescent lights flickered overhead like they were struggling to stay alive.
Behind the front desk, two case workers spoke in hushed voices, not realizing I was already standing there.
"Where did she even come from?" one whispered.
"I don't know. She wasn't brought in like the others," the second answered, glancing nervously toward the hallway. "The report says she was found crying on the doorstep. No ID. No parent. Nothing."
"She's not even logged into the intake system. She just... appeared."
I swallowed hard, my pulse quickening.
Appeared.
The word struck me deeper than it should have.
That's when the door creaked open, and I finally saw her.
Mia.
Tiny. Shivering. Silent. Eyes too big for her face, filled with something I couldn't quite name — not fear, not sadness — something heavier. Like she already knew too much for a child her age.
"Mrs. Bianchi, " the director greeted me, her voice strangely cheerful. "This is Mia. We've done our initial assessments, and everything seems healthy. She's ready for placement."
"Have you found her parents?" I asked carefully.
The director's smile dimmed for a moment. "No. No records, no one has come forward. It's as if she was… dropped here." She forced a chuckle. "But sometimes, life gives us miracles, doesn't it?"
I didn't respond.
Because something about this didn't feel like a miracle.
It felt like a question no one wanted to answer.
As I signed the paperwork, my hand trembled slightly. I caught another whisper from the corner:
"Do you think she has some kind of disease?"
"Don't say that," the other worker hissed. "We're not supposed to talk about it."
Disease?
I almost asked. But I didn't.
Instead, I looked at Mia again.
And for the briefest moment — just a flicker — I swore I saw her eyes shimmer unnaturally under the fluorescent light.
But when I blinked, it was gone.
"Are you ready to go home, sweetheart?" I asked softly.
She nodded once, voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes."
And so I took her hand.
The first few days were... strange.
Not bad. Not difficult. Just strange.
Mia was polite, almost too polite for a child so young. She followed me silently through the house, her small hand gripping mine whenever we went from room to room. She rarely spoke unless I asked her something directly, and even then, her answers were brief. Almost rehearsed.
She never cried.
She never threw tantrums.
She simply… existed.
It was unnatural.
The first odd thing happened that very first night.
I had just tucked her into bed. The storm outside had finally passed, but the wind still howled faintly beyond the window. I stood in the hallway for a few minutes, listening.
No sound.
But when I checked on her again an hour later, her blanket was perfectly smooth. The pillow untouched. She was sitting on the floor instead — legs crossed, eyes wide open, staring at nothing.
"Mia?" I whispered. "Why aren't you sleeping, honey?"
She turned her head slowly, as if she hadn't noticed me standing there.
"I don't sleep much," she said softly.
I crouched next to her. "Are you scared? Is it the storm?"
She shook her head. "No. I just… don't sleep much."
I wanted to press, but something about her voice stopped me. The words felt practiced — like something she had told adults before.
The second odd thing happened two days later.
I was in the kitchen preparing lunch when I heard a pop from the living room. A quick, electric snap. I rushed over, expecting to find a broken lamp or some faulty wiring.
Instead, I found Mia standing in front of the old wall clock.
The clock hands spun wildly, whirring like they were possessed. Sparks danced along the metal frame before the mechanism burned out with a faint hiss.
Mia just stood there, wide-eyed, her tiny fingers held out in front of her like she was reaching for something unseen.
When she noticed me, she jerked her hands back quickly.
"I didn't mean to," she whispered.
"Mia… what happened?" I asked carefully.
"I… I touched it." She looked at her hands as though they weren't hers. "It was broken."
The clock hadn't been broken before.
I knelt down beside her and gently held her hands, checking for burns. "You're not hurt?"
She shook her head.
The skin on her palms was warm, but unharmed.
After that, I kept a closer watch.
Lights flickered when she entered certain rooms. The radio changed stations by itself when she walked past. Small objects — coins, keys, pens — occasionally slid across the table as if nudged by an invisible hand.
But Mia never acknowledged it.
And when I asked, she always had the same answer:
"I didn't do anything."
Was she lying? Or did she truly not understand what was happening?
The strangest moment, though, came on the fifth night.
I woke to the faintest humming sound. At first, I thought it was coming from outside — maybe a generator, or the wind playing tricks again. But as I followed the noise, I realized it was coming from Mia's room.
The door was cracked open.
She was standing in the middle of the room — barefoot, eyes closed — humming softly. The melody was haunting, almost mechanical in rhythm, but unlike any lullaby I'd ever heard.
Around her, small particles of dust hung suspended in the air, glittering like tiny stars. They weren't falling — they were frozen, as if time itself had paused around her.
The moment she sensed me, her eyes snapped open. The dust fell instantly.
She looked at me like a child caught sneaking candy from the kitchen.
"Are you… okay, sweetheart?" I asked, forcing my voice to stay calm.
She nodded. "I'm fine."
I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to believe her.
But deep inside, something whispered that this child — this precious girl now sleeping under my roof — was not like anyone else.
And whatever brought her to my doorstep…
Was far from normal.
~present day ~
The morning sun bled softly through the curtains, painting thin golden stripes across the bedroom floor. My eyes fluttered open, blurry and heavy.
That dream again.
I sat up slowly, my heart still racing, though I couldn't say why. The images were already slipping away, like sand through my fingers: the flickering lights, the broken clock, Mia standing barefoot in the middle of her room surrounded by floating dust.
Ridiculous.
I rubbed my face, pushing the lingering tension away.
It was just a dream. A bad mix of exhaustion and stress — that's all.
Mia was normal. She is normal. A teenage girl who sometimes lies about sneaking friends in, who struggles with homework, who laughs at bad TV shows, who steals cookies when she thinks I'm not looking.
Whatever strange things I thought I saw when she was little — they were years ago. And honestly? I barely trust my memory from that time anymore. I was overwhelmed. I wanted to be a mother so badly. My mind probably filled in the gaps to make sense of a bizarre adoption process.
I glanced at the framed photo on my nightstand: Mia at age eight, her smile wide, her eyes bright. Nothing dangerous about that little girl.
And yet...
A whisper of unease coiled low in my stomach.
I shook my head and swung my legs over the edge of the bed.
"No," I said quietly to myself, as if saying it aloud would make it truer.
"She's just a normal girl."
I stood, forcing my hands to stop trembling.
Time for breakfast.
Time for normal.