Time was a peculiar thing. For some people nine months could be enough to build an entire life from scratch. For others, it wasn't even enough to mend a single broken habit. But for Zeke, those same nine months were enough to reshape his entire world.
In that span he learned to steal without being caught, climb the loose bricks of abandoned houses, hide beneath carts when patrols passed, and sleep lightly enough to wake before danger found him.
He learned how to survive the way a stray animal does: by watching, by waiting, by taking whatever life begrudgingly offered.
One sunny morning, he sat in his usual corner, knees tucked to his chest, thinking about what he would have to do today to stay alive. He was counting footsteps and scanning pockets out of habit when a shadow softened the light in front of him.
A woman stood there.
She looked to be in her early thirties, dressed in simple black robes that resembled the garments worn by sisters of the quiet sanctuaries. Her posture was straight, her hands clasped gently in front of her, yet what struck him most was her eyes.
She wasn't looking past him the way others did. She wasn't pretending not to see him. She looked at him, truly looked, as if he were something more than a stain on the street.
"Do you have somewhere to return to?" she asked, her voice warm enough to feel unreal.
Zeke froze.
For a moment, the question didn't register in his head.
People didn't ask him questions. They didn't speak to him unless they were telling him to move, leave, or stop breathing their air.
Yet here she was, a stranger who stepped willingly into the space everyone else avoided.
Zeke's first instinct was suspicion. If these months had taught him anything, it was that things that looked too good to be true were indeed too good to be true.
He lifted his chin in a practiced motion, trying to drive her away. He told her this corner was his spot and that he didn't need her help. His voice came out sharp and unapologetic, strong enough to make most people leave with disgust.
But the woman stayed.
There was no disgust, no pity, no judgment.
She only repeated her offer, saying that her place might not be much warmer or richer than this street, yet it could give him something he had been missing for far too long.
A little company. A little safety. A little peace.
Zeke wanted to laugh, to mock her, to call her foolish for wasting time on a boy like him.
Yet he couldn't.
Something in her eyes stopped him. Something calm, something steady, something he knew, but couldn't name.
For the first time in months, he felt safe simply being seen.
Zeke agreed to her offer and followed her, step by step, cautious as a stray animal edging toward a hand it did not trust. The woman slowed her pace and extended that same hand toward him.
Her palm was open, steady, unafraid. She looked past the filth on his skin, past the ragged clothes and the smell of salt and hunger. She simply waited.
For a moment Zeke froze. No one had touched him in nine months. No one had wanted to. His fingers twitched as if remembering how to move, and then, slowly, he placed his hand in hers.
It was awkward at first. His grip was hesitant, unsure. But her hand was warm. It tightened around his with a gentle firmness that reminded him of something he could not remember. Something soft. Something safe.
They walked like that for a few breaths before she spoke again.
"It is late for introductions," she said with a small smile, "but what is your name?"
Zeke cleared his throat. It came out rough and thin. "Zeke."
"A good name," she replied. "I am Marianne. But you can call me Sis Mari. I run a small orphanage on the outskirts of Saltspire Town."
Zeke blinked. The word orphanage landed in his chest like a stone and rippled outward. Home. Shelter. Food. Things that sounded too bright to be real. He nodded without trusting his voice.
Marianne noticed his tension, the stiff way he held his shoulders, the way his eyes kept darting toward alleys as if expecting someone to yank this moment away from him. She did not press him. She only kept his hand in hers and continued walking, calm and steady.
Zeke stayed quiet. It was not shyness. It was unfamiliarity. He had forgotten how to speak to people. Forgotten how to exist beside someone without expecting harm.
Marianne understood. She let the silence stretch comfortably between them. Step after step, the noise of the marketplace faded behind them. The air grew cooler and quieter as the streets gave way to the outskirts of town.
Zeke walked beside her with slow, cautious steps, unsure of what awaited him, unsure of why she cared. But for the first time since he opened his eyes on that cold shore, the weight in his chest eased. Not a lot. Just enough to breathe.
And he followed her. Not because he trusted the world. But because, somehow, he trusted her.
The orphanage sat on a small hill overlooking the quiet outskirts of Saltspire Town. Tall grass swayed around the building, green, soft, and alive. Making the place look far gentler than it deserved.
Up close, the truth showed.
The structure was made of aging wood, the kind that creaked with every shift of the wind. Some windows were cracked, others patched with uneven boards. Small white blotches speckled the brown walls as if someone had tried repainting it, only to run out of paint halfway through. The roof had gaps wide enough to let rain in, though from the way the beams sagged, it seemed the leaks were the least of its problems.
With just a glance anyone could tell the orphanage didn't have much.
But what it did have was noise.
Even from a distance, laughter rolled down the hill like a warm breeze. Shouts. Footsteps. The kind of chaos only children could create. It was messy and loud and completely alive.
When Sis Mari and Zeke approached, several children sprinted toward her, swarming her legs, hugging her with the eagerness of puppies greeting their owner. She laughed softly, patting their heads as she guided them aside.
Two smaller kids, one boy, one girl, latched onto Zeke instead, wrapping their arms around his legs without hesitation.
"Yay! A new big brother!" they yelled at the same time.
Zeke froze. Completely. He stared down at the two tiny humans clinging to him like he was some kind of treasure they'd been waiting for.
Before he could react, another boy, around Zeke's age, slipped into view. White hair, brown eyes, a grin sharp enough to look mischievous but warm enough to be harmless. He threw an arm casually around Zeke's shoulders.
"Welcome, bro. I'm Neil," he said. Then he wrinkled his nose. "And you really need a shower."
The words should have stung. They didn't. There was no cruelty in his tone. Only teasing. Playful, familiar, like he'd already decided Zeke belonged here.
Before Zeke could answer, a short girl stepped forward, orange hair tied with ribbons, green eyes bright enough to glow. She bent down easily, lifting the two children off Zeke's legs as if she'd done it a thousand times.
"I'm Julie," she said, her smile soft and sure. "We're all family here… so I guess that makes you my brother too."
Zeke stared at her, at Neil, at the kids bouncing excitedly around him. He swallowed, unsure how to fit words around the strange warmth settling in his chest.
"I… I'm Zeke," he finally managed. "Nice to meet you all."
Sis Mari had been watching from behind, her expression a blend of relief and affection. She stepped closer, nudging him lightly with her elbow.
"Yeah, Neil was right," she said. "Go freshen up, sweetheart."
For the first time since waking on that cold shore, Zeke didn't feel the urge to run, he didn't feel invisible.
Neil led Zeke down a narrow hallway that creaked with every step. At the end was a small washroom, if it could even be called that.
A wooden bucket sat beside a dented metal scoop, both worn smooth from years of use. Cold water filled the bucket, still and glassy.
Neil set a folded set of clothes on a nearby stool. "Here," he said, grinning. "You'll feel human again after this."
Then he closed the door behind him.
Zeke dipped the scoop into the bucket and poured it over his head. The shock hit instantly, cold enough to bite, yet it felt warm in a strange way. Warm because it meant safety, because no one was yelling at him to leave, because the water was his to use.
Another scoop. Then another.
Mud and dried salt slid off his skin. For the first time in nine months, he felt something close to clean.
Something close to new.
And in that small, drafty room, with nothing but a bucket, a scoop, and the faint laughter of children drifting through the window, Zeke took the first quiet step into the life he didn't know he'd been waiting for.
After washing away the grime of nine months, Zeke followed Neil back toward the orphanage's dining room. His hair still dripped water down his neck. His clean clothes clung uncomfortably to his thin frame. He felt exposed, unfamiliar, as if the boy in these clothes was someone else entirely.
Voices leaked through the hallway before he entered. Laughter. Chatter. The scrape of wooden stools. A world he had watched from the outside for nearly a year.
Sis Mari waved him over the moment she saw him.
"Come. Lunch is ready."
The table was small, uneven in places, but somehow every spot was filled with warmth. The children sat shoulder to shoulder, bumping elbows and fighting for space as if that too was part of the fun.
When Zeke approached, they all quieted for a heartbeat, then greeted him with smiles that were too pure to be fake.
Sis Mari introduced him.
"This is Zeke. Treat him well."
Names bounced around the table. A boy missing a front tooth. A girl with braids too tight for her own comfort. The pair of twins who had clung to his legs earlier. Zeke could barely keep track. The kindness, the attention, the unfiltered energy hit harder than any hunger he had ever felt.
They sat down to eat.
The meal was modest. A few slices of bread and a thin soup that smelled faintly of vegetables, though Zeke could barely see any floating inside.
It did not matter.
The instant the bowl touched the table, instinct took over and Zeke devoured the food. His movements were frantic, animal-like. The children stared wide eyed.
Before he could swallow another mouthful, Sis Mari wrapped an arm gently around his shoulders.
"Slow down," she whispered. "No one is chasing you anymore. You are safe here."
Safe.
The word felt foreign on his tongue. Heavy. Unbelievable.
Zeke slowed. The next spoonful tasted different. Richer somehow. The soup warmed his throat and settled in his stomach like a promise he had never been offered before.
It was delicious.
The best thing he could remember eating.
His eyes stung. Tears gathered at the corners, refusing to fall. He blinked them away quickly, embarrassed by the softness of the moment.
The room stayed quiet as he finished, everyone watching him the way one watches a stray animal learning how to rest for the first time.
When he finally set the spoon down, Neil elbowed him with a grin.
"Bro, you eat like you have a grudge against the soup."
The joke broke the tension. Laughter erupted around the table. Even Zeke let out a small, shaky laugh that surprised him more than anyone else.
Something inside him shifted. Not shattered. Not healed. But loosened, as if the walls he had built around himself were starting to crack.