By the time Elara turned thirteen, London was no longer just the backdrop to her days—it was the stage on which she had to survive.
The city was alive in a way she had never felt inside the foster home. The hum of buses, the hiss of tires on rain-slicked pavement, the chatter of strangers flowing past her—it was all overwhelming at first. But London also offered something the foster home never could: a sense of freedom.
Elara's foster mother often sent her on errands. "Run down to the corner shop, get bread and milk," she would bark, tossing a few coins into Elara's palm. Other times, Elara was expected to walk to the market for vegetables, or accompany younger children across the street.
At first, she dreaded these trips. She was small, quiet, easily lost in the sea of people. But gradually, the city became a kind of companion. The towering buildings seemed to whisper stories, the cobbled alleys carried secrets, and the flickering streetlamps promised safety in the dark.
She would often pause near shop windows, watching mannequins dressed in elegant clothes she could never afford. On one street corner, a music shop played soft jazz from a speaker outside, and Elara lingered, letting the rhythm sink into her bones. London was filled with sounds she couldn't always name but loved to feel.
It wasn't long before she realized the city was also where she could earn her first coins of independence. At fourteen, she began small jobs—handing out leaflets near the Underground station, helping a florist wrap bouquets, sometimes sweeping floors at a café.
She never earned much. The café owner, Mr. Patel, would smile and press a coin into her hand.
"You've got a hardworking spirit, Elara. Keep studying. You'll go far."
Elara clung to those words like treasures.
Still, the streets were not always kind. One rainy afternoon, while hurrying home with a paper bag of groceries, a group of schoolgirls from her class spotted her. They laughed at her soaked skirt, at the way she slipped on the wet pavement.
"Always the clumsy orphan!" one of them sneered.
Elara gritted her teeth, holding the bag tighter. She didn't fight back—she rarely did—but her heart burned with quiet defiance.
On better days, London gave her glimpses of beauty. She discovered the South Bank, where street performers played violins and painted faces with laughter. She would stand at a distance, pretending to just pass by, though in truth she was soaking in every note, every color.
Sometimes, when she had a few spare coins, she bought a small pastry from the corner bakery. She would sit on a bench, legs dangling, savoring each bite slowly as if it were a feast. For a little while, she was just another London girl enjoying a treat, not the foster child counting every penny.
The city also carried memories she couldn't shake. One evening, at the airport bus terminal, Elara's foster mother sent her to pick up a relative. It was there, amid the bustle of departures and arrivals, that she caught sight of something that would linger forever.
A line of women in crisp uniforms moved gracefully through the crowd. Their navy-blue jackets were spotless, their scarves tied with precision, their smiles radiant. They carried themselves with poise, guiding passengers gently, answering questions with ease.
Elara's breath caught. She couldn't look away.
They weren't just women in uniforms—they were light, walking through the chaos with calm dignity. At that moment, something clicked inside her. She didn't know their names, but she knew what they were: airhostesses. Guardians of the skies.
Her heart swelled with longing. That's who I want to be, she whispered silently to herself. Not because they looked glamorous, but because they seemed strong, untouchable, free.
That night, back in her small foster room, she scribbled the word airhostess on the corner of a diary page. She traced it twice, underlined it, as though anchoring the dream into her soul.
From then on, whenever she walked through the bustling streets of London, she carried that vision with her. Amid the chaos, the laughter, the sneers, and the kindness of strangers—she held tight to the image of those women at the airport.
London had shown her many faces: harsh, beautiful, unforgiving, inspiring. And Elara, with her delicate smile and stubborn hope, was learning to survive them all.