London's morning was unusually cold. Raindrops from the night still clung to the small window of the foster home, streaking down the glass like silent tears. Wrapped in a thin, worn blanket, Elara, barely nine years old, sat curled in the corner of her bunk. The blanket smelled faintly of soap and dampness, and though she tried to tuck it around her shoulders, the chill always managed to sneak in.
The dormitory was crowded. Dozens of children filled the space, their voices rising and falling like a restless tide. To some, the noise was comforting—proof they weren't alone. To Elara, it was a reminder. Each face around her carried a story of loss, abandonment, or tragedy. Some hid behind loud laughter, others behind stubborn silence. Elara simply folded herself smaller, as if becoming invisible might make the ache in her chest less heavy.
It had only been six months since the accident. She remembered the night with painful clarity—the flashing ambulance lights, the strangers' hurried voices, the way her neighbors avoided her gaze afterward. Her parents had left the house for dinner, a simple evening out. They never came back. The world had shifted overnight, and the warm home filled with music and bedtime stories turned into this cold, grey building where no one tucked her in.
She pressed her forehead against her knees, breathing quietly. Through the smudged window, she watched London stir awake. People in long coats hurried to buses, mothers held children's hands as they crossed the street, shopkeepers pulled open their shutters. Life carried on, untouched by her sorrow.
"They all have somewhere to belong," she thought. "And what about me?"
The sharp clang of a bell startled her. A warden's voice, brisk and impatient, cut through the chatter.
"Breakfast line! Quickly, children, quickly!"
The children scrambled, some half-running to secure a better spot. Elara rose slowly, adjusting her blanket like armor. She joined the line, staring at the backs of the others. Two girls ahead whispered and giggled, one hiding a small toy she wasn't supposed to keep. A boy behind her nudged another, laughing about a dream he'd had. Their voices carried fragments of normal childhood, but they felt foreign to her.
When it was her turn, she held out her tray with both hands. A slice of bread, a small cup of milk. She nodded a quiet "thank you," though the warden didn't notice. At the long table, she sat at the edge, away from the noise. She tore the bread into small pieces, chewing slowly. The food filled her stomach but not her heart.
Beneath the table, pressed against her legs, lay her secret: a small sketchbook. The cover was worn, corners bent from being tucked and hidden so many times. Inside, she kept her world. She drew clouds, wide skies, and always airplanes. Some large and grand, some tiny and fragile, all with wings carrying her far away. Planes meant freedom. Planes meant someday.
As she finished her bread, she flipped open the notebook just enough to glimpse the page she'd drawn last night—a big jet soaring over an endless sea. She let a small smile tug at her lips, the kind of smile no one else ever saw.
"Hey, what's that?" a boy across the table leaned forward, trying to peek.
Elara quickly closed the notebook, hugging it protectively. "Nothing," she said softly.
The boy shrugged and turned back to his friends, but Elara's heart thumped. Her drawings were hers alone, a fragile secret she wasn't ready to share.
After breakfast, the children were herded to chores and school. The foster home had routines, strict and unbending. Elara swept floors that seemed to collect dust no matter how much she worked. She listened as other children complained loudly, but she stayed quiet, her mind elsewhere. While she moved the broom, she imagined it was the aisle of an airplane, passengers smiling as she welcomed them aboard. In those moments, her dream kept her alive.
By evening, the dormitory dimmed into silence. One by one, the children drifted into sleep, some with stuffed toys, others with fists curled tight under pillows. Elara lay awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Shadows played across the cracked plaster, forming shapes only she could see—wings, clouds, horizons.
She whispered into the darkness, words only she could hear:
"One day, I'll fly. One day, I won't be stuck here."
Her voice was so soft it melted into the hum of the night. Still, the promise settled in her chest like a flicker of warmth.
Elara didn't know it yet, but this was only the beginning. Life would test her in ways she couldn't imagine. Hardship, love, and a shadow from her past still waited ahead. But for now, in that small room with rain against the window, a girl with nothing but a sketchbook dared to dream of wings.