Darkness enveloped Xavier's vision, swallowing the hospital room and Maria's pleading eyes. When his sight returned, the world had shrunk and brightened all at once. The ceiling loomed impossibly high above him. The wooden floorboards, worn and splintered, felt rough beneath his small bare feet.
He knew this place. St. Catherine's Home for Orphaned Children.
But something was wrong. He wasn't just witnessing this memory—he was living it again. His hands were tiny, with dirt under the fingernails. The baggy gray shirt hung past his knees. His purple eyes peeked out from behind too-long white hair.
He was seven years old again.
"This isn't right," Xavier whispered, but his voice came out high and childish. "I was older before. I was watching."
The pantry door creaked behind him, and Xavier spun around. A little girl huddled in the corner, clutching a piece of bread to her chest. Her eyes were wide with terror, tear tracks cutting through the grime on her face.
