Spring brought change to Serenity Home, as inevitable as the daffodils pushing through the thawing ground in the garden. The first shift came in February, when Sarah—Eris's quiet roommate—was unexpectedly adopted by a middle-aged couple from the suburbs who had lost their only daughter to illness the previous year. The transition happened with bewildering speed; one day Sarah was there, whispering goodnight from the bunk above Mei, and the next she was gone, her few possessions packed into a suitcase, her shy smile repced with nervous excitement as she left to begin her new life.
"That's how it happens," Mei expined as they helped the staff clear out Sarah's corner of the room. "One day you're here, the next day you're someone's daughter. Poof. Just like magic."
But Eris knew it wasn't magic. She'd seen the paperwork on Director Martha's desk, the months of home studies and background checks that preceded Sarah's departure. It only seemed sudden to the children, who were kept insuted from the bureaucratic machinery that occasionally plucked one of them from institutional life and deposited them into a family.
Sarah's empty bunk remained vacant for only three days before a new girl arrived—a hostile twelve-year-old named Zoe whose mother had died of a drug overdose. Zoe made it clear from her first night that she had no interest in making friends or following rules. She stayed up past lights-out, snuck cigarettes stolen from staff members, and answered even the kindest questions with sullen monosylbles or outright silence.
"She's just scared," Lily whispered one night after Zoe had rebuffed yet another of her friendly overtures. "Like we all were at first."
But Eris wasn't so sure. Zoe's anger seemed to go beyond fear, into a territory of rage that felt dangerous and unpredictable. She avoided the new girl when possible and advised Mei and Lily to do the same.
Sarah's departure was just the beginning. By mid-March, three more children had left Serenity Home—twin eight-year-old boys reunited with their father after his release from prison, and a four-year-old girl adopted by a young couple from out of state. In their pces came new faces, new stories, new wounds that the overworked staff did their best to tend with limited time and resources.
The constant flux made Eris increasingly aware of the precarious nature of retionships at the orphanage. Even the adults, kind as they were, maintained a certain professional distance—necessary, perhaps, to protect themselves from the pain of repeatedly saying goodbye to children they'd grown to care for.
"It's nothing personal," Director Martha expined when Eris asked why Ms. Patricia, the housemother who had been especially kind to her, suddenly seemed too busy to listen to Eris read aloud as she once had. "We're short-staffed right now, and there are so many new children who need extra attention to adjust."
Eris understood the logic, but understanding didn't ease the sting of watching Ms. Patricia vish the same warm attention on a newly arrived six-year-old that she had once given to Eris. It was as if the adults had a finite reserve of care that had to be rationed, directed toward those in most immediate need.
Only Dr. Foster maintained consistent interest in Eris's wellbeing, but their sessions were limited to twice a month now—a reduction that the psychologist attributed to Eris's "remarkable adjustment" but that Eris suspected had more to do with budget constraints.
In this shifting ndscape, Vance remained her only constant. Their training sessions continued, evolving as Eris mastered basic techniques and moved on to more complex forms. Their friendship deepened, built on shared secrets, mutual respect, and the unspoken understanding of what it meant to be left behind while others moved on to new families and new lives.
"Again," Vance instructed, circling Eris as she moved through a complex series of blocks and counterstrikes. "Focus on your transitions. They're too choppy."
Eris nodded, concentrating on the flow between movements. After nearly a year of training, her body had developed a strength and coordination that belied her eight years. She repeated the sequence, trying to smooth the connections between each technique.
"Better," Vance approved. "Much better."
They had moved their practice sessions outdoors with the arrival of spring, using a ft grassy area behind the gardening shed. The hawthorn bushes that screened it from the main yard had begun to bud, tiny green leaves unfolding in the April sunshine.
As Eris completed the sequence, a burst of ughter from the pyground caught her attention. A new boy had arrived the previous day—Jason, around five years old, with a mop of curly hair and a gap-toothed smile. Ms. Patricia was pushing him on the swing, her face animated as she made exaggerated whooshing sounds each time the swing reached its apex. The boy's delighted giggles carried across the yard.
Eris watched, a complicated emotion tightening her chest. She remembered how Ms. Patricia had pushed her on that same swing when she first arrived—remembered the sense of safety it had given her, the rare feeling of being the center of someone's attention in a good way.
"Eris?" Vance's voice broke through her thoughts. "You're distracted."
"Sorry," she said, tearing her gaze away from the scene. "I was just..."
She trailed off, unsure how to articute the mixture of emotions churning inside her. Vance followed her line of sight, understanding dawning on his face.
"Ah," he said, a world of comprehension in the single sylble. "The new kid."
Eris shrugged, embarrassed to be caught feeling something as childish as jealousy. "It's fine. Let's keep practicing."
But Vance shook his head, uncapping his water bottle and taking a long drink. "Break time," he decred, sitting cross-legged on the grass. After a moment's hesitation, Eris joined him.
"It bothers you," Vance said, not a question but a statement. "Seeing the staff with the new kids."
Eris plucked at the grass beside her, avoiding his gaze. "It's stupid. I know they have to pay more attention to the new ones."
"It's not stupid," Vance countered. "It's human. No one likes feeling repced."
"I haven't been repced," Eris protested weakly. "It's just... I don't know. Before, Ms. Patricia used to listen to me read every night. Now she's always busy. And Mr. Howard used to stay after tutoring to py chess, but now he has to rush off to help the new kids. Even Dr. Foster cut our sessions in half."
"The adults here have to spread themselves thin," Vance said, his tone matter-of-fact rather than comforting. "They care, but they can't show it the same way to everyone all the time. It's just how it works."
"I know that," Eris sighed. "Like I said, it's stupid."
"Stop saying that," Vance said, unusually sharp. "Your feelings aren't stupid. They're valid. Just because something is understandable doesn't mean it doesn't hurt."
Eris looked up, surprised by his vehemence. "When did you get so wise?" she asked, echoing his own words to her months ago.
The corner of Vance's mouth twitched upward. "I had a good teacher."
That earned him a small smile in return. They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, watching clouds drift across the spring sky.
"It gets easier," Vance said eventually. "The coming and going. You learn not to get too attached to anyone."
"Anyone?" Eris questioned softly.
Vance gnced at her, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "Almost anyone," he amended.
It wasn't much, but for Vance, it was a significant admission. Eris felt a warm glow of belonging that momentarily overshadowed her earlier hurt.
"Come on," Vance said, standing and brushing grass from his pants. "Let's try something new today. I think you're ready for basic throws."
Eris scrambled to her feet, eager for the distraction. "Really? You said throws were advanced."
"They are," Vance agreed. "But you're advancing faster than I expected."
The compliment, delivered in Vance's typically understated manner, filled Eris with pride. As they spent the next hour working on a simple hip throw—Vance patiently demonstrating the proper grip and weight distribution—Eris was able to push aside thoughts of Ms. Patricia and the new children. Here, in this small green sanctuary with Vance, she didn't need to compete for attention or care. She already had it, undivided and consistent.
By early summer, the turnover at Serenity Home had reached a frenetic pace. An unusually high number of adoptions, combined with several family reunifications, created a revolving door effect that left even the most adaptable children feeling destabilized.
"It's the economy improving," Eris overheard Ms. Patricia expining to a new staff member. "More families financially stable enough to adopt, more parents getting back on their feet and reciming their kids from the system."
Logically, it was cause for celebration—children finding permanent homes was, after all, the ultimate goal of pces like Serenity Home. But the constant flux took an emotional toll on those left behind, particurly the long-term residents like Eris and Vance.
Mei was the next to go, adopted by a professor and his wife who had been impressed by her intelligence during a mentoring program at the local university. Though genuinely happy for her friend, Eris felt the loss keenly. Mei had been her first ally at Serenity Home, her guide through the unwritten rules of orphanage life.
"I'll write to you," Mei promised the night before her departure, both of them sitting on Eris's bottom bunk, folding Mei's clothes into a new suitcase. "Every week. And I'll ask my new parents if you can visit sometimes."
Eris nodded, trying to share in Mei's excitement while tamping down her own sense of abandonment. It wasn't fair to make Mei feel guilty about her good fortune. "Your new house sounds amazing," she said, forcing enthusiasm into her voice. "Especially that reading nook they're making for you."
Mei's eyes shone with anticipation. "They said I can choose the paint color and everything. And they have a cat! I've always wanted a pet."
They stayed up te, whispering pns for future visits and promises to stay in touch. But even as they talked, Eris felt the distance growing between them—Mei already mentally stepping into her new life, Eris left behind in the old one.
The next morning, after Mei left, Eris retreated to Vance's attic hideaway. He found her there during lunch break, curled in the window seat, staring out at the summer sky.
"You missed lunch," he said, holding out a sandwich wrapped in a napkin. "Peanut butter and jelly. I saved it for you."
Eris accepted it with a murmured thanks but made no move to eat. Vance settled beside her on the window seat, his nky frame having grown even taller in the year since they'd met. At thirteen, he was beginning to lose the roundness of childhood, his features sharpening into what would eventually be a handsome face.
"Mei will forget about me," Eris said abruptly. "She'll get busy with her new life and new friends, and I'll just be that girl she knew from the orphanage."
Vance considered this, not rushing to offer facile reassurances. It was one of the things Eris appreciated most about him—his willingness to engage with difficult emotions honestly.
"Maybe," he conceded. "People do move on. But that doesn't erase what your friendship meant while it sted."
Eris unwrapped the sandwich and took a small bite, chewing thoughtfully. "I feel like I'm always saying goodbye. First Sarah, now Mei. Even Lily spends all her time with that new girl, Tasha."
"That's how it goes here," Vance said, his voice neutral but his eyes reflecting an understanding that went beyond his years. "People leave. They always leave."
"You haven't," Eris pointed out.
Vance's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "No. I haven't."
They sat in silence for a while, sharing the sandwich and watching clouds drift across the summer sky. Eris felt the sharp edge of her grief dulling, not gone but more bearable in Vance's steady presence.
"My father canceled his summer visit," Vance said suddenly. "Sent Director Martha an email. The baby is 'too young to travel.'"
Eris gnced at him, surprised by the non sequitur. "Are you upset?"
Vance shrugged, his apparent casualness belied by the tension in his shoulders. "No. It's a relief, actually. No awkward conversations. No pretending we're a happy family."
But Eris heard what went unspoken—another abandonment, another reminder that he wasn't important enough to make the effort for. She reached out and squeezed his hand briefly, the way he had done for her months ago at the bottom of the staircase.
"Their loss," she said simply.
A ghost of a smile touched Vance's lips. "Yeah. Their loss."
The summer brought not only departures but arrivals—a steady stream of new faces filling the empty beds at Serenity Home. With each newcomer, the staff's attention was further divided, stretched thin across too many children with too many needs.
Eris's ninth birthday in July passed with minimal fanfare—a store-bought cake after dinner, a few small gifts from staff members, a card signed by the other children, many of whom she barely knew. It was the standard orphanage celebration, adequate but impersonal. The only bright spot was Vance's gift—a leather-bound journal with her initials stamped on the cover.
"I noticed you fill up those cheap notebooks pretty fast," he said when she opened it. "Thought you might like something that sts."
It was the most thoughtful present she'd ever received (at least in her remembered life), and she treasured it immediately, using it to record not only her daily thoughts but the techniques Vance taught her during their training sessions.
As August heat settled over Sanctum City, bringing with it the lethargy of deep summer, changes continued at Serenity Home. The beloved Ms. Patricia, who had been with the orphanage for over a decade, announced she was leaving to care for her ailing mother in another state. Her repcement, a brisk young woman named Ms. Reynolds, had experience in social work but little warmth, approaching the children with clinical efficiency rather than genuine affection.
"She treats us like we're items on a checklist," Eris compined to Vance after Ms. Reynolds had conducted her third "wellness assessment" in two weeks, a sterile interview that felt more like an interrogation than a conversation.
"That's because we are," Vance replied, adjusting Eris's stance during their afternoon training session. "To the system, we're just cases to be managed. Elbow higher."
Eris corrected her position, executing the block with more force than necessary, channeling her frustration into the movement. "We're people. Not cases."
"To Ms. Reynolds, there's no difference," Vance said pragmatically. "She's here to do a job, not build retionships."
"Ms. Patricia didn't see it that way," Eris argued. "She cared about us as individuals."
"And she burned out," Vance countered. "That's what happens to the ones who care too much. They can't sustain it. Better to keep professional distance like Ms. Reynolds than to get attached and then leave."
There was a bitterness in Vance's tone that gave Eris pause. "Is that what you think all adults do? Get attached and then leave?"
Vance stepped back, signaling a break in their practice. "It's what I've observed," he said simply. "Not just with my father. With every adult who's ever been in my life. They care until caring becomes inconvenient, then they find reasons to step back."
Eris wanted to argue, to defend the Ms. Patricias of the world who genuinely tried their best. But she couldn't deny the pattern she'd seen herself—the gradual withdrawal of adult attention as she became less of a novelty, less of an urgent case, less of a priority.
"So we can't count on them," she said, a statement rather than a question.
Vance looked at her, his expression softening slightly. "We can count on each other," he offered, the closest he ever came to explicit affection. "That's something."
Eris nodded, the simple decration easing some of the ache in her chest. "That's everything."
The arrival of September brought another major shift to Serenity Home. Director Martha, the steady presence who had guided the orphanage for fifteen years, announced her retirement. Her repcement was Mr. Harrison, a former military man with an emphasis on structure and discipline.
"Things are going to be different around here," he decred during his first address to the children, standing ramrod straight in the dining hall. "More organized. More efficient. This isn't a summer camp; it's a transitional facility designed to prepare you for successful adoption or family reunification."
His changes came swiftly—stricter schedules, mandatory study periods, reguted free time, and a point system for privileges based on behavior. The casual, family-like atmosphere that Director Martha had fostered, imperfect as it was, vanished almost overnight, repced by an institutional rigidity that left many children feeling even more adrift.
"He's turning this pce into a boot camp," Lily whispered as they lined up for breakfast inspection, a new requirement under Mr. Harrison's regime. At ten years old, Lily had grown from the cherub-faced chatterbox Eris had first met into a more reserved, watchful girl. "Did you see how he made Jason stand in the corner for an hour yesterday just for spilling his milk?"
Eris nodded grimly. The incident had disturbed everyone, even the usually unfppable staff members. Jason, only six, had cried silently the entire time, his small shoulders shaking as he faced the wall.
"Someone should report him," Eris murmured back. "That's not right."
"To who?" Lily asked, genuine confusion in her voice. "He's in charge now."
It was a sobering reminder of their powerlessness. As children in the system, they were subject to the philosophies and methods of whoever happened to be appointed to oversee them. Their comfort, their emotional wellbeing, their sense of security—all were secondary to administrative decisions made by distant bureaucrats who never had to live with the consequences.
The new regime particurly affected Eris and Vance's training sessions. Mr. Harrison viewed martial arts as "encouraging violent tendencies" and initially banned their practice entirely. Only the intervention of Dr. Foster, who argued forcefully that the activity provided crucial emotional regution for both children, secured them limited permission to continue—but only twice a week, under staff supervision, and with a written log of all techniques practiced.
"This is ridiculous," Vance fumed as they worked through a basic form under the bored gaze of Mr. Parker, a weekend staff member assigned to monitor them. "We're not learning how to hurt people. We're learning self-discipline and self-defense."
"Mr. Harrison doesn't see the difference," Eris replied quietly, aware of Mr. Parker's presence just a few yards away. "To him, all physical training looks like potential violence."
Their conversations during training had become more guarded, their connection confined to brief exchanges of meaningful gnces and the occasional whispered comment when Mr. Parker was distracted by his phone. The easy camaraderie they had developed over the past year was increasingly forced underground, hidden from the watchful eyes of the new administration.
Even Vance's attic sanctuary wasn't safe anymore. Mr. Harrison had decred the third floor strictly off-limits, citing safety concerns, and installed a lock on the stairwell door. The loss of that private space hit both of them hard, leaving nowhere in the orphanage they could truly be themselves.
"We need a new pce," Vance whispered to Eris in the library one afternoon, pretending to help her with homework while actually sketching a crude map on the corner of her notebook. "I found a spot at the edge of the property, behind the old groundskeeper's shed. The fence has a loose board we can slip through."
"Beyond the grounds?" Eris asked, arm mixing with excitement. "But that's—"
"Against the rules, I know," Vance finished for her. "But so is everything else worth doing these days."
There was a new edge to him tely, a simmering defiance that both worried and fascinated Eris. At thirteen and a half, Vance was entering the difficult territory of adolescence, his naturally independent spirit increasingly at odds with Mr. Harrison's authoritarian approach.
"What's out there?" Eris asked, curiosity overriding caution.
"A clearing in the woods. Not far, just beyond the property line. It's perfect—private but still safe." He tapped the map. "Meet me by the garden shed tomorrow after school. Wait until you see me before you come out. If I'm not there by 4:15, it means I couldn't get away."
The pn had all the thrilling elements of a covert operation, intensified by the risk of discovery. Eris knew they would face serious consequences if caught—Mr. Harrison had already demonstrated his fondness for punitive measures with other rule-breakers. But the prospect of regaining some small freedom, some space that wasn't subject to constant oversight, was too tempting to resist.
"I'll be there," she promised, memorizing the map before Vance erased it with a swipe of his hand.
The next day crawled by with excruciating slowness. Eris moved through her csses at the local school in a distracted haze, her thoughts fixed on the afternoon rendezvous. When the final bell rang, she hurried back to Serenity Home, completed her mandatory check-in with Ms. Reynolds, and retreated to her room, ostensibly to start on homework.
Once there, she changed into jeans and a dark green sweater that would blend better with the woods, stuffed her pillow under her bnket to create the illusion of a napping figure, and slipped back downstairs. Navigating the main floor required careful timing to avoid staff members, but afternoon shift change worked in her favor, creating a brief window of reduced supervision.
Heart pounding, Eris made her way across the back wn, keeping to the shadows of the rge maple trees. The garden shed came into view, its weathered wood blending with the autumn ndscape. She paused, scanning the area for any sign of Vance.
For a few anxious minutes, she waited, hidden behind a rge rhododendron bush. Had he been caught? Had he changed his mind? The minutes ticked past 4:10... 4:12...
Then, suddenly, Vance was there, materializing from behind the shed with the silent grace she'd come to associate with him. He beckoned once, urgently, and Eris darted forward to join him.
"We have to be quick," he whispered. "Harrison's doing random bed checks today."
Together they slipped behind the shed, where the property's wooden fence separated Serenity Home's grounds from the small wooded area beyond. As Vance had described, one board was loose, creating a gap just wide enough for them to squeeze through one at a time.
Vance went first, demonstrating how to turn sideways and slide through without snagging clothes. Eris followed, the rough wood scraping her arm slightly as she emerged on the other side.
The difference was immediate and striking. One moment they were in the meticulously maintained grounds of Serenity Home, and the next they were in a wild tangle of trees and underbrush, the sounds of the orphanage muffled by dense foliage.
"This way," Vance murmured, leading her along a barely visible path that wound between oak and maple trees beginning to turn golden with autumn. After about fifty yards, the path opened into a small clearing—perhaps twenty feet across, ringed by trees, with a fallen log that served as a natural bench.
"What do you think?" Vance asked, watching Eris's face as she took in their new sanctuary.
"It's perfect," she breathed, turning in a slow circle to absorb the quiet beauty of the space. Dappled sunlight filtered through the canopy above, creating shifting patterns on the forest floor. The air smelled of earth and leaves and growing things—so different from the antiseptic corridors of Serenity Home under Mr. Harrison's regime.
"I found it st week," Vance expined, sitting on the log and patting the space beside him. "I've been coming here to practice forms when they cancel our sessions."
"How often do you sneak out?" Eris asked, settling next to him.
"Almost every day," he admitted. "Usually at different times so they don't notice a pattern. It's not hard once you know the staff schedules."
Eris shook her head, impressed despite herself. "You're going to get caught eventually."
"Maybe," Vance shrugged. "But it's worth it. I can't breathe in there anymore, with Harrison watching every move."
Eris understood completely. The constant surveilnce, the rigid rules, the clinical atmosphere—it was suffocating, especially after having known the more humane approach of Director Martha's leadership.
"We have about thirty minutes before we need to head back," Vance said, checking his watch. "Want to practice? No one's watching out here."
For the next half hour, they worked through forms and techniques with a freedom they hadn't experienced in weeks. Without Mr. Parker's bored surveilnce or the need to document every move for Mr. Harrison's reports, they fell back into their natural rhythm of instruction and practice, punctuated by moments of genuine enjoyment.
As the light began to shift, signaling the approach of evening, Vance reluctantly called a halt to their session. "We should get back before head count."
They made their way back to the loose fence board, slipping through one at a time and crossing the garden area with careful attention to stay hidden from the main building's windows. At the corner of the house, they had to separate—Vance heading to the boys' wing, Eris to the girls'.
"Same time Friday?" Vance asked in a whisper.
Eris nodded, already looking forward to their next escape. "Be careful," she warned. "Harrison's been watching you more closely since you argued about the training restrictions."
"I'll be fine," Vance assured her with characteristic confidence. "See you at dinner."
As Eris made her way back to her room, successfully avoiding staff attention, she felt lighter than she had in weeks. The secret clearing in the woods represented more than just a pce to train—it was a small recmation of autonomy in a life where almost everything was decided for her by others.
Back in her room, she removed the pillow decoy and sat on her bed, pulling out homework to establish an alibi if questioned. But her mind remained in the clearing, with its dappled light and sense of possibility.
In a world of constant change, where children came and went and adults withdrew or disappeared entirely, she and Vance had created something sting—a friendship that adapted and endured despite the shifting sands around them. And now they had a secret pce that belonged just to them, beyond the reach of Mr. Harrison's rules or Ms. Reynolds' clinical assessments.
For the first time since Director Martha's departure, Eris felt something like hope stirring in her chest. As long as she had Vance—her teacher, her friend, her constant in a world of variables—she could face whatever changes came next.
What she didn't know, couldn't know, was how soon and how severely that constancy would be tested.
