The first time he saw the orphanage, it was raining. Not a gentle drizzle, but a relentless storm that blurred the world into gray. Water streamed off the eaves of the neighboring houses and gushed along the gutters, swirling around his ankles as he trudged forward. His sweater clung to his skin, heavy and useless, and his shoes squelched with every step, making a wet, sticky sound that only reminded him how far from home he was.
If home was even the right word anymore.
The social worker walked ahead of him, her umbrella tilted against the wind, her heels clacking determinedly along the narrow stone path. She didn't look back to see if he was keeping up. Maybe she thought he was too quiet to get lost. Maybe she didn't want to see the way his eyes darted around, searching for something familiar and finding nothing.
He was seven — old enough to understand that his parents weren't coming back, but too young to know what to do with that truth. Adults spoke in hushed voices around him now, using words like accident and tragedy and paperwork. They thought he didn't understand, but he did. What he didn't understand was how the world could keep spinning when everything that mattered had stopped.
The orphanage loomed ahead, a tall wooden building with wide windows and a sagging roof that looked older than anything he'd ever lived in. Its paint was faded, the garden overgrown, and a crooked sign above the door read Hinata House in peeling gold letters.
It didn't look like a place where people could love you.
The door opened before they even knocked.
She stood there — Aya-san. The woman who would become the center of his world, though he had no way of knowing that yet. She had a towel draped over one arm and worry already creasing her brow as she crouched to his level. Her hair was pulled back into a loose bun, and faint lines etched the corners of her eyes — the kind that came from years of smiling.
"You must be freezing," she said softly, wrapping the towel around his shoulders before he could protest. Her voice was like warmth pressed into his ears, calm and steady against the storm's howl. "Come in, little one. You're safe now."
Safe.
He didn't believe her. The word felt foreign — like a language he'd forgotten. Safe was something you felt when arms wrapped around you at night, when a familiar voice called you to dinner, when someone promised they'd always be there. That word had vanished the night the police knocked on his door.
Still, he followed her inside.
The warmth hit him first — a wave of heat that flushed the chill from his skin. The entryway smelled faintly of miso soup and wood polish, and slippers lined the floor in neat pairs. Children's drawings covered the walls: stick figures holding hands, bright suns, crooked houses, messy rainbows. Their colors looked too cheerful for a place like this.
Aya led him deeper into the building, speaking gently as they went. "We've been expecting you. The others are finishing dinner. I thought you might like something warm too."
She guided him into a cozy dining room where a group of children sat around a long wooden table. Their faces turned toward him — curious, cautious, some openly staring. A few whispered to each other. One girl giggled behind her hand.
He shrank under their gaze and clutched the towel tighter.
"Don't worry about them," Aya murmured. "They're just curious. It's always exciting when someone new joins the family."
Family. The word stabbed at him. He almost laughed — a bitter, humorless sound — but bit it back.
Aya disappeared for a moment and returned with a steaming bowl of soup. She set it gently in front of him. "Here. Eat slowly. There's more if you want it."
The smell was comforting — miso and tofu and green onions — but his hands trembled as he wrapped them around the bowl. Part of him expected someone to snatch it away. Another part didn't want to eat at all. He hadn't felt hungry since the day everything changed.
Still, he took a small sip. Then another. The warmth spread through his chest, loosening something tight inside him. He didn't notice Aya watching from across the table, her smile soft and patient.
"You don't have to eat fast," she said when she noticed his pace quicken. "There's plenty here. As much as you want."
The words made his throat tighten. No one had ever said that to him before. Food at home had always appeared without question, without thought. Now, the idea that there was enough — that someone would make sure of it — felt like a kindness too big to believe.
He wanted to cry but didn't. He didn't want her — or anyone — to think he was weak.
Later, when the dishes were cleared and the children scattered into the playroom, he stayed where he was. He didn't join the games. Didn't laugh with the others as they argued over building blocks and toy cars. Instead, he slipped quietly to a corner near the window, knees drawn to his chest, eyes fixed on the rain still hammering against the glass.
He'd always liked the rain. It made the world feel distant and small — like maybe the ache in his chest wasn't quite so big.
Aya found him there, her footsteps soft against the wooden floor. She didn't scold him for sitting alone or ask why he wasn't playing. She just placed a blanket around his shoulders, tucking it gently beneath his chin.
"You'll catch cold if you sit here too long," she said.
"I'm fine," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
She didn't push. She just lowered herself to the floor beside him, knees tucked under her, and stared out the window too. For a long time, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the patter of rain and the distant laughter of the other children.
Then she started humming — a soft, lilting tune he didn't recognize. It wasn't a lullaby his mother had sung, but there was something familiar in it anyway. Something safe.
He didn't move closer. Didn't thank her. But little by little, the tension in his body eased. The warmth of the blanket, the steady rhythm of her humming, the quiet companionship — it all chipped away at the walls he'd built since the night everything fell apart.
When his eyes began to grow heavy, he let them close. The rain became a soft murmur, Aya's voice a gentle anchor holding him steady.
And in that half-sleep, a thought whispered through his mind — fragile and hesitant, but there all the same:
If I had a mother, I'd want her to be like her.
The next morning would come with new faces and new fears. He would flinch when someone reached for his hand. He would hide his drawings so no one could see them. He would fight every instinct that told him to trust, because trusting meant losing, and losing meant hurting again.
But for that night — wrapped in a stranger's blanket, listening to a stranger's song — he allowed himself to believe, just for a moment, that maybe "home" wasn't gone forever.
Maybe, against all odds, he was already standing at its door.