The afternoon light spilled through the cracked windows of the orphanage hall — pale, dusty, and tired, like everything else in the room. Metal plates clinked, kids chatted, laughed, argued. And in the center of it all, a small crowd gathered around one boy.
The mute kid.
Eight years old. Thin arms, messy hair, blank eyes that never reacted the way people expected them to.
"Oi, he got extra rice again."
"No fair."
"Why does he get more? He doesn't even talk."
One boy snatched the small cup of rice from the tray. Another shoved his shoulder. Someone poked his cheek just to see if he'd flinch.
He didn't.
He only held the tray tighter, staring at the floor as if the dust there was more interesting than any of them.
Inside, though— Again… It's always the same.
A fist hit his side. A hand swiped his bread. A foot kicked his stool from under him.
He didn't cry. Didn't yell. Didn't complain.
The caretakers barely looked up anymore. Kids were kids, they said. Kids were cruel, but they'd "grow out of it."
They didn't understand the real reason behind the cruelty: He used to belong to money — a wealthy family before his parents died when he was three. Their relatives abandoned him, and somehow, the rumour of his past still floated around the orphanage like a bad smell.
"Rich boy gets more food, huh?"
"Show us your fancy manners."
"Say something, mute!"
He simply raised his head a little, his expression flat… bored almost. It only made them angrier.
It doesn't matter… It's all the same.
Someone shoved him again — harder this time. The tray tilted.
And that's when the hall door opened.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic.
But the whole room shifted — like even the dust paused mid-air.
A tall figure stepped inside carrying two huge bags of groceries. A man with an easy smile, bright eyes, and a kind of energy that made the air feel lighter the moment he appeared. He visited often — too often — always with food, toys, books, even silly jokes the caretakers rolled their eyes at.
The kids didn't treat him like a celebrity.
They treated him like sunlight.
"DANIEEEL!" "Mr. Daniel!!" "You're back!" "What did you bring this time?!"
In seconds, the swarm hit him — small hands tugging at his sleeves, kids jumping, shouting, clinging to him like he was some friendly giant returning from an adventure.
He laughed — loud, genuine, cheerful.
"Whoa, whoa— one at a time!" he said, shifting the heavy bags to one arm so he could ruffle two heads at once. "I'm not Santa, okay? Actually… no, wait, maybe I am today."
A chorus of excited squeals replied.
One kid climbed up his back. Another pushed his arm to get his attention. Someone tried peeking into the grocery bag.
Daniel didn't scold them. He laughed with them.
"Hey now— don't spoil the surprise! Let me put these down first or I'm gonna drop everything on my own feet!"
He made his way forward, kids bouncing around him like happy sparrows.
But as his eyes swept the room — taking in the chaos, the smiles, the noise — something else caught his attention.
A small boy. Standing alone. Tray tilted. Eyes empty.
Daniel's cheerful expression softened for a split second.
Then he smiled again — gentler this time — as if he'd found the person he came for.