The first light of morning spilled pale and thin across the stone floor, long before the other children stirred. She was already awake. She always was.
Rising from her bed without a sound, she folded her blanket neatly, pressing down the corners just the way Elra had taught her. The moon was gone now, replaced by a sky the color of cold ash, but its memory still lingered behind her eyes. That quiet magic. That gentle watching.
She padded softly through the still hallway, careful not to wake the others, and made her way toward the back of the orphanage where warmth was already beginning to stir. The kitchen was humming low with the early sounds of boiling water and creaking cabinets. She slipped inside without announcement, sleeves already rolled up.
One of the kitchen women gave her a nod not unfriendly, but not warm either. "There's the bucket," she said, pointing with her chin before returning to her chopping.
She fetched it, filling it at the pump and carrying it without complaint. Her arms ached, but she didn't show it. No one asked her to help. But no one stopped her, either.
The staff liked her in a quiet, distant sort of way. They appreciated how she worked without being asked, how she didn't complain, how she knew when to stay out of the way. But they never got too close. They didn't want the others to notice. Didn't want to spark whispers of favoritism.
So they offered her small kindnesses a second spoonful when no one was looking, a folded towel placed a little closer to her bed but never more. Never openly.
She realized it as she was wiping down the windowsills the hush in the hallway, the extra bread rising in the kitchen, the way Elra had smoothed her apron twice before starting the fire.
A couple was coming today. To see her.
Not officially, of course. Not yet. But she knew the signs. The sideways glances. The way her name had been spoken a little too softly yesterday evening. It wasn't the first time.
She set the rag down and stepped back. "Thank you," she said softly to the kitchen woman.
The woman glanced over, surprised by the voice in the quiet. Then she gave a small smile the kind that flickered only at the edges of her mouth. "You're welcome, moon-hair," she said gently, using the nickname the staff sometimes whispered when they thought she couldn't hear.
It didn't sound unkind. Just distant. Affection wrapped in caution.
She nodded, said nothing more, and turned toward the hall.
Normally, she would've stayed longer. Helped with dishes. Swept the back steps. But today, her hands stayed close to her sides, her pace steady, her mind quiet in that way it only got when it was bracing.
She entered her room without a sound, closed the door, and went to the small chest at the foot of her bed. Inside were the same few pieces of clothing, carefully folded. She reached for the neatest one.
She would need to look proper. Presentable.
Like someone worth choosing.
She was smoothing the front of her dress when soft footsteps padded down the hall. The door creaked open behind her.
By now, the other children had begun to stir. The quiet hum of morning filled the space whispered conversations, the rustle of blankets, the shuffle of small feet slipping into worn shoes. One by one, they drifted out of the room, drawn by the promise of breakfast and warmth. Within a minute, only she remained.
And Elra.
The matron stepped through the door with her usual quiet grace, closing it partway behind her. Morning light pooled around her ankles as she crossed the room, a brush held lightly in her hand.
She always brushed the girls' hair before visitors came neat and proper, just like the rest of the orphanage. It was part of the routine, part of the care she gave to all of them.
But with her the silver-haired girl Elra always took a little more time.
Her hand moved slower. Gentler. Each stroke of the brush less about appearances and more like something else. Something careful. Something close.
As if, for a few brief minutes, it was okay to show that she cared.
"There's a couple from the outer district," Elra said, gently working through a small tangle near the nape of her neck. "Well dressed. Wizards, I think."
Her tone was light, almost casual but the girl could feel the careful weight beneath it. The way Elra paused before speaking, the way her fingers softened around the brush as if not to tug too hard.
"They said they're looking for someone… quiet. Disciplined. A girl who listens. Who doesn't cause trouble." She hesitated just a moment, as if choosing her words. "Someone thoughtful. Observant."
Each word was chosen like a thread in a stitch, pulled tight with quiet hope.
The girl said nothing, but Elra didn't expect her to. She just kept brushing, slow and steady.
She had spoken to the couple herself, had lingered near the front hall longer than she needed to, subtly steering the conversation their way. She'd dropped the girl's name gently, deliberately weaving it into the kind of details that didn't sound like praise, just truth.
She knew the girl didn't meet every expectation. Not on paper. But there was more to choosing than charts and numbers. There had to be.
So now, as she brushed the silver hair she knew by feel better than her own, Elra tried to give her something she rarely dared:
A reason to hope.
The girl sat still, listening to the soft drag of the brush through her hair, her gaze fixed on the floor. She didn't say anything. But she understood.
Wizard couples didn't come looking for girls like her.
Not really.
Not once they asked the right questions. Not once they saw the numbers.
But Elra had still tried.
The girl could feel it not in anything Elra said outright, but in what she didn't say. In the gentle way she listed qualities that had nothing to do with magic. In the slight tremble in her breath when she spoke of the couple's visit, like she was willing the world to bend just this once.
She knew what it had cost to get even this far.
Knew how carefully Elra must have nudged the conversation, how much of her own quiet authority she had spent to bring the couple's attention even briefly to the silver-haired girl hiding at the back of the roster.
The brush slowed, then stilled. Elra set it aside, smoothing down the girl's hair with her palm one final, lingering touch.
"There," she said softly. "You look lovely."
She sat there on the edge of her bed, hands folded in her lap, looking almost too composed for a child her age.
Her silver hair, freshly brushed, framed her face in soft, even strands cut just below the chin, neat and deliberate. It shimmered faintly in the morning light, catching glints of pale gold where the sun touched it. Short, but elegant. Like moonlight trimmed to fit.
She wore a white blouse, crisp and clean, its collar lying flat against her neck. The fabric was plain but well-kept, the sleeves buttoned at the cuffs. Her black skirt reached just below the knees, simple and proper the kind of outfit meant to show she could behave, that she could belong.
There was a quiet beauty to her. Not loud or showy.
But clear.
Like the difference between glass and crystal something subtle, but undeniably present.
She looked like someone carefully put together.
Someone trying.
And maybe that's what made her beautiful most of all.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Then, before the moment could pass, before either of them remembered where the boundaries were supposed to be she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Elra's waist.
A quiet hug. Small, sudden, and only possible because no one else was there.
Elra stiffened for the briefest second out of habit, not refusal then slowly lowered a hand to the girl's back.
Just one. Gentle. Steady.
Elra stepped back to admire her, just for a breath. Then turned to place the brush on the nightstand.
"Thank you," the girl whispered.
Then, before the moment could pass, before either of them remembered where the boundaries were supposed to be she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Elra's waist.
A quiet hug. Small, sudden, and only possible because no one else was there.
Elra stiffened for the briefest second out of habit, not refusal then slowly lowered a hand to the girl's back.
Just one. Gentle. Steady.
They didn't say anything else.
They didn't need to.
Outside, a bell chimed once at the front gate sharp and clear.
Elra drew back, her hand lingering a moment longer before falling away. She gave a soft breath, like someone setting aside something fragile.
"They're here," she said quietly.
When the couple arrived, the orphanage seemed to hold its breath.
It wasn't spoken, but everyone felt it the shift in the air, the sudden hush that settled over the halls. Chores were done more carefully, voices dropped to whispers, and even the youngest children stopped running just long enough to peek around corners with wide, curious eyes.
The front gate creaked open only once, but the sound echoed like a bell. Their carriage was modest, but elegant dark wood polished to a soft sheen, the kind of carriage that didn't need to prove anything because its silence already did.
Footsteps on stone. The rustle of fine robes. The scent of lavender oil and parchment and something faintly magical.
Wizards.
They never came without reason. And when they did, it was never for long.
The staff straightened their aprons. The cook lit the hearth again, even though the morning chill had already passed. Chairs were dusted, hair re-braided, dust swept twice from corners that hadn't seen feet in weeks.
In the dining hall, the children whispered.
"Do you think they'll take someone?"
"Maybe it's for Lora. She's been reading fast lately."
"No, it's probably Rulin. He's funny."
No one mentioned her.
They rarely did.
But she felt it anyway that strange, electric stillness in the air, as if the orphanage had been polished overnight, made to look just a little brighter than it usually did. As if, for a moment, it was pretending to be something more than it was.
And then the doors opened.
They were led to the small receiving room near the front of the orphanage
The couple entered first.
They stepped in quietly the man with silver-threaded cuffs, the woman in neatly pressed gloves and took their seats with a kind of poised familiarity. They didn't speak much to Elra, only nodded politely as they passed, their presence measured but not unkind. The door was left open, just a sliver of hallway showing beyond.
Then the girl was called in.
She stepped through the doorway like a shadow slipping into light, her movements careful, rehearsed. Her silver hair caught the sun as she crossed the room, and for a brief moment, the wildflowers on the table seemed dull by comparison.
The receiving room was small and tidy, tucked just off the main hall near the front of the orphanage. It was used only for special visits potential parents, officials, donors and it always smelled faintly of polished wood and dried lavender, as if someone had scrubbed the air itself.
Sunlight filtered through the tall, narrow windows, catching on dust that floated like slow snow. A simple rug softened the stone floor, and two wooden chairs faced a cushioned bench with curved legs. In the center stood a low table, bare except for a vase of carefully arranged wildflowers daffodils, maybe, or something meant to look cheerful without being too bold.
It wasn't grand, but it was clean. Intentional.
The kind of room that wanted to feel warm, even if it didn't quite know how.
For the girl, it felt... still.
Not cold not exactly but quiet in a way that made her very aware of herself. Her posture. Her breath. Her answers. Every blink and every heartbeat felt like it echoed a little louder in here.
She knew what this room was for. It wasn't where decisions were made not really. But it was where impressions were. Where she was meant to become something more than a line on a chart.
She sat straight, hands folded just so, feeling the air wrap around her like a held breath. The chairs were soft enough. The silence was kind enough. The couple's presence was gentle.
But still, she felt like a picture being examined in a frame.
One stray crack, and they'd look away.
They didn't start with questions.
The couple sat comfortably, not stiff like most visitors. The woman smiled first a small, gentle curve of the lips and said, "You must be the one with the silver hair."
"Yes, ma'am," the girl replied softly, sitting up straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her voice was careful, polite. "Elra helped brush it this morning."
"It's lovely," the woman said, eyes kind.
The girl glanced down for a moment, then looked back up shyly. "Your gloves are lovely too," she said. "They look soft… like something you'd wear in a warm place."
The woman blinked, then smiled a little wider this time. "Thank you. That's very sweet of you."
The man was watching quietly, his expression reserved but not cold.
"You're very calm," he said, tone more curious than impressed. "Do you get nervous around new people?"
"A little," she admitted. "But I try to stay calm. It helps me think better."
She looked down briefly, then added, almost as if reminding herself, "Most things feel less scary when I'm quiet."
That seemed to strike something in him not surprise, but understanding. He gave a slow, thoughtful nod.
"We asked to meet someone gentle," the woman said. "Someone who listens. Who doesn't need too much noise around them."
"I don't like noise much," the girl said. "It makes everything feel heavy. I like when things are soft. Clean. Still."
The conversation unfolded gently. No rapid questions. No clipped judgments. They asked about her daily routine, what she liked to do, whether she preferred being alone or with others.
"I like helping," she said. "Carrying water, sweeping, folding towels. I don't mind doing it by myself."
They asked what she did when she had time to herself.
"I read," she said, her voice steady, though quiet. "Mostly whatever Matron Elra lets me borrow. Storybooks, sometimes history."
She paused, then added with quiet honesty, "I also practice magic. A little. Not as much as the others can, but I still try every day."
Her hands tightened slightly in her lap not from shame, but from focus. She didn't look away.
"I can do the basic things. Just… not as strong. Or for as long," she said. "But I don't give up. I know I'm behind, but I'm still learning."
She let the pause settle before continuing, her voice softer now.
"And at night… I watch the moon."
The woman tilted her head slightly. "The moon?" she asked, a note of curiosity in her voice.
"Yes," the girl said. "Every night, if I can. It's always there. Even when it's small. Even when no one's looking."
She hesitated, then added softly, "I like that it doesn't hurry. It just moves on its own. Quiet, but… steady."
The room went still for a moment not tense, just full of something that felt like listening.
The interview went on a little longer quiet questions, soft answers, and long, thoughtful silences. Eventually, the man gave a small nod, and the woman offered a polite smile.
"That was very helpful," she said. "Thank you for speaking with us."
The girl stood, her movements calm and practiced. "Thank you for your time," she replied, then gave a small bow of her head before stepping out into the hall.
A few minutes later, another name was called.
She sat alone on the bench, hands folded tightly in her lap, feet just barely brushing the floor. The hallway felt colder now not from any draft, but from the silence that followed her exit.
Her back was straight. Her expression calm. But inside, everything was waiting.
Not stirring.
Not panicking.
Just waiting.
Like a held breath.
She watched the door across from her, listened to the muffled shuffle of feet and quiet instructions as the next name was called. One by one, the other children passed her some with bouncing steps, others with glances thrown her way that quickly looked elsewhere.
She wasn't jealous. Not exactly.
Just… aware.
Aware of how easily people saw what they wanted to see.
And how hard it was to be noticed when you were quiet when your strength was stillness.
Her fingers curled slightly in her skirt.
She told herself she had done everything right. Sat properly. Spoke clearly. Said thank you. Didn't say too much. Didn't say too little.
But the uncertainty still sat beside her. Wordless. Heavy.
She looked up briefly as the next child walked past a girl with bright ribbons in her braids, cheeks still flushed from nervous energy. Then another. Then a boy, one of the louder ones, trying awkwardly to smooth his shirt.
She watched each one go in. Quietly. Without envy. Without hope.
She didn't try to lean closer. Didn't press her ear to the door or angle her head toward the voices inside. She just waited, posture steady, shoes resting flat on the stone floor.
It was only when all the children had finished when the hallway emptied again and silence settled in like dust that something in her shifted.
She heard footsteps soft, familiar and looked up just in time to see Elra approach the door.
The matron paused, her hand on the handle, glancing once toward the girl with a look that held nothing the others could see. Then she pushed the door open and stepped inside.
This time, the girl leaned forward but not toward the door.
She stood slowly, casting a quick glance down the corridor. Empty. Then she moved to the opposite wall the one that separated the hallway from the meeting room. It looked like any other part of the orphanage: wooden boards, slightly warped with age, varnished smooth by time and hands that had passed too often without noticing.
But she had noticed.
Just beneath the old bench fixed along the wall, half-concealed by shadow and dust, was a knot in the wood an uneven hole carved deep, wide enough to see through if you knelt low. She had found it months ago. Maybe it had been made by a child like her, years before. Or a servant. Someone else who had wanted to listen without being seen.
From her side, it was hidden by the bench. From the meeting room, the hole was tucked behind a tall cabinet nearly invisible unless someone crawled down and looked for it. And even then, she had stuffed a scrap of cloth into the corner just in case. Just enough to make it look like an old patch of darkness.
She crouched now, pulling the cloth aside, careful not to let it flutter. The hole revealed a thin sliver of the room beyond. She leaned closer
Inside, she saw movement the curve of Elra's shoulder as she spoke, the edge of the couple seated just within view, their hands resting against polished wood. The man was holding a parchment. The woman sat very still, her gloves folded neatly.
Their voices were muffled. But not silent.
"She's polite. Quiet. Reads well beyond her age," said Matron Elra, her voice composed but gently insistent. "She's observant. Steady."
"She trains hard. Her condition isn't making her unable to become a mage she just needs more effort," Elra offered, choosing her words with care. "There's still time. And who knows maybe the war will ease. There haven't been any major offensives in months. Just border skirmishes, a few raids… nothing like before."
The man's eyes stayed on the report, his grip tightening slightly.
"They're still drafting," he said, voice low. "Still watching for anyone who can hold a spell longer than a minute. Low mana or not."
"She wouldn't be alone," Elra said gently. "With guidance, with care—"
"My son had both," the man interrupted, his voice barely above a whisper. "He was quiet. Kind. Low-count, but not hopeless. We thought we could keep him safe."
His gaze didn't rise, but his words struck like a blade dulled from too much use.
"They said it was just a patrol. Just a raid. He was twenty. He never came back."
Beside him, the woman closed her eyes for a moment her hand still resting on his arm, as if holding him in place. Her voice came quieter than his, but steadier.
"We buried one child already."
Elra's lips parted, but no words came.
"We did everything right," the woman continued. "We raised him gently. We taught him to be careful. To serve without being seen. And still... we buried him."
The man finally looked up, his eyes tired and glassy.
"She's everything we asked for,"
Elra looked up.
"She is," the woman continued, "gentle, thoughtful, observant. Not demanding. Not loud. She listens. She tries. Everything we said we wanted in a child."
The man nodded slowly. "She's perfect," he said. "Too perfect."
Elra waited, her hands clasped in front of her, saying nothing.
"That's the problem," the woman said softly. "We can't look at another child now. Not after her."
Elra's brow furrowed. "You're not considering anyone else?"
"No," the man answered, and his voice cracked just slightly. "Because none of them will be her. And none of them will let us forget."
The woman gave a small, strained smile. "She didn't do anything wrong. She reminded us of how much we lost. And how much we still haven't healed."
"We came looking for a child," the man murmured, "and instead we found a mirror."
He stood slowly, folding the report once more. This time, he didn't open it again.
"We can't bury another child," the woman said.
"And we couldn't live with ourselves," the man added, "if the one we chose looked just like the one we lost."
A silence followed one heavy with what might have been.
Then they turned to leave.
And left the door quietly behind them.
The door opened with a soft creak.
Elra walk towards the door first, her face composed but drawn. The couple followed close behind, their footsteps slow, their expressions unreadable.
From her place behind the wall, the girl panicked a little.
She had heard enough not everything, but enough.
Quickly, she slipped the cloth back over the hole, rose silently, and returned to the bench where she had been sitting before. Her hands smoothed her skirt, her breathing steadying. She sat straight. Waiting. As if she had been there all along.
When the three adults rounded the corner and saw her, they paused.
The girl looked up.
Her silver hair caught the light from the tall window behind her. Her posture was perfect, her expression calm. And when her eyes met the man's, she smiled small, hopeful, soft. Not because she believed it would change anything.
But because it was all she had to offer.
The man stopped walking.
Something in him cracked not loudly, not visibly. Just a deep, slow shatter behind his ribs.
He knelt in front of her, gently, as if kneeling before something fragile.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice thick.
The girl blinked once, then shook her head, still smiling.
"It's okay," the girl said, still smiling. "I'm sure I'll get adopted soon."
Her voice carried a lightness that didn't quite reach her eyes a softness meant to spare them the weight they were already carrying.
The man opened his mouth, but no words came.
Then, without warning, the girl leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him.
It wasn't a desperate hug. Not pleading.
Just warm. Quiet. Steady.
The kind of hug that said I know.
The kind that forgave what hadn't been spoken aloud.
The man stiffened, startled by the sudden contact by how small she felt in his arms. How light. How much like his son, and yet not. His throat closed around something too old to name.
As he slowly returned the embrace, the girl leaned in and whispered barely more than breath:
"I hope you both find peace."
The man's chest tightened.
He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her face her calm, composed expression. Her silver hair catching the light like a memory. Her eyes... knowing.
She had heard them. Somehow, she had heard.
And she wasn't angry.
A tear slipped down his cheek. Then another.
His wife stepped forward and placed her hand gently on his shoulder. She didn't try to stop the tears. She just stood there, steady, as he bowed his head.
After a long, aching pause, they turned.
As the couple stepped through the orphanage doors, the girl remained seated, her small hands folded tightly in her lap, her eyes fixed on the place where they had just stood.
She didn't cry.
Not yet.
But something inside her shifted a small, invisible thread pulling taut.
The hallway, once filled with quiet expectation, now felt hollow.
Like a room after music stops.
Like an empty chair that should've been hers.
Her fingers twitched, curling tighter, then slowly loosened as she stood. Her legs felt a little heaVierna than before. Her chest, a little tighter. She turned around stiff at first and saw Elra standing just behind her, silent and still.
The girl took one step. Then another.
And then she cracked.
She crossed the last distance too fast to be composed. Threw her arms around Elra's waist and buried her face into the fabric of her apron. Her shoulders trembled, just once. Not sobbing. Not breaking down.
Just… breaking, quietly.
Elra didn't speak.
Didn't say it's alright, because it wasn't.
She simply closed her arms around the girl slow, steady and held her. Held her like something fragile, something still holding on.
The girl didn't say anything.
But in the way she clung, in the way she breathed in as if trying to stay whole —
It was clear:
This time, it hurt.
And she needed someone to hold the pieces.