He studies me. “You sure?”
“I am.”
He smirks. “Alright then. I’ll keep the throne warm.” He turns and walks away.
The silence in his wake is thick. I watch him leave.
Night comes.The sky above the orphanage is clear—stars blazing. I lean against the doorframe of my little office and listen. The world is quieter here. No sirens. No missiles. Not tonight. Just the scuffing of shoes, the giggling of children finishing up, the hum of distant traffic. I roll the roof vent open a crack. The breeze carries the smell of jasmine andstreet-vendors cooking skewered meats. It’s normal. And that’s what scares me.
I’m cleaning up my desk when I hear a knock. Soft. Two short raps.
I freeze.
We weren’t expecting visitors.
My heart accelerates. Instincts coil. I glance at the door.
It opens.
I see him.
Ben.
Light-footed, small, dark hair mussed, eyes wide.
He holds a folded piece of paper in his hand.
“Mister Kuraken?” he says. His voice a mixture of hope and apology. “Mom said I could visit.”
I breathe.
My throat goes dry. Suddenly the room is too bright, too loud. The paper in his hand looks heavier than any weapon I’ve ever pulled.
I meet his eyes. Then the note.
I reach out. Take the paper. His little hand twitches.
“Hey, champ,” I say softly.
He nods. “Can I… stay?”
I don’t answer.
I just chuck the note in the waste-basket. It lands, crumpled.
He frowns.
I kneel down. Face him.
“Only if you want to.”
He nods again, tighter this time. He steps closer.
I wrap my arms around him. His small arms slide around my waist, and he squeezes.
For the first time, I let myself feel it.
Hope.
