Elara woke to the creak of the old wooden stairs and the familiar clatter of breakfast trays. The foster home always stirred awake long before the sun climbed fully into the sky. Children bustled down the hall, pulling on mismatched shoes and jackets that were one size too big.
She slipped into her simple uniform—faded grey skirt, a white blouse that had lost its crispness years ago, and a tie that hung unevenly no matter how carefully she tried. At nine, she already knew she was not one of the "pretty girls." The mirror only showed her soft, delicate face framed with dark hair she rarely had time to brush properly. Yet when she smiled at herself, it was genuine. She held on to those smiles like small treasures.
School was supposed to be a place of learning, but for Elara it was also a stage of survival. The classroom buzzed with chatter. Some girls snickered as she walked past, whispering about her old shoes, her plain satchel, the fact she never spoke of parents or weekend trips. Elara lowered her gaze, clutching her books tighter.
But in the corner of her classroom stood Miss Howard, her English teacher. A gentle-eyed woman with short auburn hair, she always had a kind word for Elara.
"Elara, you've done beautifully with your essay," she would say, placing a gold star on the page. "Your imagination is extraordinary. Don't let anyone dim that."
Those moments warmed Elara more than the foster home's thin blankets ever could. She began to pour her heart into writing stories. At night, after homework, she scribbled in a small diary she kept hidden beneath her pillow. The pages filled with little drawings, short poems, and secret thoughts she dared not speak aloud.
Still, school wasn't easy. During lunch, she often sat alone under the oak tree in the corner of the playground, nibbling at her sandwich slowly to make it last. Sometimes a ball would roll near her, and boys would shout, "Don't touch it, it'll catch your bad luck!" She pretended not to hear, but each word pressed into her like tiny thorns.
When the day ended, Elara hurried back to the foster home where the television blared. Most of the children fought for cartoons or loud shows, but she didn't mind. She sat cross-legged on the rug, eyes fixed on the screen whenever bright animated worlds danced before her.
Cartoons became her comfort. In their painted skies and silly characters, she found laughter. She laughed quietly, covering her mouth, but it was real. For a while, the ache of being unwanted melted away. She also loved music—the old radio in the kitchen sometimes played soft pop songs, and Elara would sway gently as she washed dishes, humming to herself.
Books were her other escape. The local library smelled of dust and adventure, and she adored it. Rows upon rows of shelves invited her into places far beyond her reach. Dragons, enchanted castles, brave heroines—she borrowed them all, carrying home heavy stacks despite the long walk.
The foster mother often sighed at her.
"Elara, always with your nose in a book. Go outside, play with the others."
But Elara simply smiled and nodded. Books didn't jeer at her. They didn't pity her. They welcomed her into their worlds without question.
Every borrowed book, every cartoon laugh, every diary page—these were her smiles, pieced together from places that didn't belong to her but felt safe for a time. She thought of them as borrowed smiles, because she never knew how long they would last before the world took them away again.
Yet deep inside, she nurtured a quiet flame. A hope that one day she would not have to borrow smiles from others, but create her own. A place, a life, where happiness wasn't temporary.
That night, lying in her narrow bed, Elara whispered into the darkness:
"Someday, I'll find a home that's mine. And I'll smile there for real."
The darkness did not answer, but the little girl closed her eyes with determination. Somewhere beyond the grey walls of her foster home, the world was waiting for her. And Elara promised herself she would meet it with open arms.