The rain fell in sheets that night, drumming against the roof of the old orphanage like a thousand restless fingers. The iron gates groaned as they swung open, and a cloaked figure slipped inside, clutching a bundle wrapped in a tattered blanket.
The figure paused beneath the flickering lantern. For a moment, the storm seemed to hush, as if listening. The bundle stirred, a faint cry breaking through the night.
"Shh… little one," whispered the woman, her voice trembling. "Forgive me. This is the only way."
She laid the child gently on the orphanage steps, tucked a small wooden carving of a bird beside her, and knocked hard on the door before vanishing into the storm.
Inside, the matron, Madam Corva, shuffled to the door, muttering curses at the late-night disturbance. She opened it and stared down at the crying infant.
"A baby? At this hour?" she hissed. "Another mouth to feed."
She bent down, lifting the child with rough hands. The wooden carving fell to the ground.
"What's this?" she muttered, picking it up. "A bird? Hmph. Worthless trinket."
The baby's cries softened as if sensing the loss.
Years passed, and the child grew into a quiet girl named Elara. She rarely spoke, preferring to sit in corners, watching, listening. The other children teased her for her silence.
One evening, as the children played in the yard, Elara sat alone, tracing shapes in the dirt. A boy named Ronan approached, smirking.
"Why don't you ever talk, Silent Mouse?" he jeered. "Cat got your tongue?"
Elara looked up, her gray eyes steady. "I talk when I have something worth saying."
Ronan laughed and shoved her shoulder. "You're strange. No wonder nobody likes you."
Before Elara could respond, Madam Corva's voice rang out from the doorway.
"Enough, Ronan! Back inside!"
The boy scowled but obeyed. Elara remained seated, her fingers curling into the dirt. She whispered to herself, "One day, I'll show them."
That night, unable to sleep, Elara wandered into the storage room. Broken furniture and discarded scraps lay piled high. She found a piece of wood, smooth enough to carve. With a stolen knife, she began to shape it, her small hands working carefully.
Hours passed. When dawn broke, she held a tiny bird in her palm — rough, imperfect, but alive in its own way.
Madam Corva discovered her later.
"What's this?" the matron demanded, snatching the carving.
"It's mine," Elara said firmly, her voice stronger than usual.
"You waste time on foolish toys," Corva snapped. "Work, not play!"
Elara's jaw tightened. "It's not a toy. It's… a voice."
Corva sneered. "A voice carved in wood? Ridiculous." She tossed the carving aside and left.
Elara picked it up again, brushing off the dust. She whispered to the bird, "You'll carry my voice when no one listens."
That evening, as the children gathered for supper, Ronan noticed the carving in her hand.
"What's that?" he asked, mocking.
Elara held it up. "A phoenix. It rises from ashes."
Ronan snorted. "Looks more like a chicken."
But another child, a girl named Mira, leaned closer. "No… it's beautiful."
Elara smiled faintly. For the first time, someone had seen her.