6. Sunny’s Hope

  The happy girl never cries. Not in front of her.

  The wake-up alarm was a clanging bell at the place I ended up—the orphanage. It cut through sleep like metal on metal, loud enough to rattle inside my skull. Every morning, it disoriented me, my body jerking upright before my mind caught up. For a few seconds, I never knew where I was. Then the smell came: bleach, sharp and stinging, mixed with old dust trapped in radiators and floorboards. That smell always settled me back into reality. This was not home.

  Sunny’s first thought was “Maybe today we’ll have fritata.”

  Shadow’s immediate correction was “Unlikely. The probability of that is 2%. Do not get your hopes up.”

  In the bathroom, the water ran lukewarm no matter how long I let it flow. It never shocked me awake and never comforted me either—just another reminder not to expect extremes. Sunny hummed a pop song under her breath, barely audible over the pipes. I caught my reflection in the mirror: wavy hair half-tamed, eyes still sleepy for the morning. A younger girl, Chiara, stood beside me. She watched the older girls the way small animals watch traffic—tense, ready to flinch. When our eyes met, her fear was so naked it made my chest ache. Sunny took over. I made a silly face in the mirror, crossed my eyes, and stuck out my tongue. Chiara giggled, a quick, surprised sound, like she hadn’t meant to let it escape.

  Shadow instantly recoiled: Stop interaction. The older girls will target Chiara or us because of this.

  My face went neutral, and I turned away as if nothing had happened, as if Chiara had imagined the moment. When I glanced back, she looked confused, her smile half-faded, unsure what she’d done wrong. I didn’t explain. Explaining was even more dangerous for us.

  Breakfast was gluey porridge, grey-beige and thick enough to stand a spoon in. Sunny tried to find patterns in the lumps, pretending they were constellations. She wanted to tell a joke to the boy sitting next to me, something about stars or planets or how this must be astronaut food. Shadow monitored Sister Martina’s poor mood, and the boy’s posture looked irritated, too. Shadow was already scanning the room. Sister Martina’s mouth was a thin line today—a bad sign. The boy’s shoulders were hunched, jaw tight, irritation written all over him. Forget about the joke. He warned. Sister Martina will scold us. Possibly in front of everyone. So I ate in silence. My knees bounced under the table anyway, energy trapped with nowhere safe to go.

  Later, during lessons, was Sunny’s favourite time. Mine too. Numbers made sense in a way people never did. When the teacher wrote a math problem on the board, my hand shot up before I could stop it. I loved the feeling of knowing the answer, of being right. For a brief, glorious moment, I felt smart, capable—seen.

  “Well done, Sofiya,” the teacher said.

  Other orphans looked up. Some were curious, some annoyed and some measuring. Shadow stiffened. Too much visibility. Remember what visibility brings. Remember the men in uniforms asking questions. Keep a low profile. I lowered my hand after that. When I answered again, I did it more slowly, less eagerly, pretending to think longer than I needed to. Being exceptional was dangerous, but being invisible was the safest choice of all. Sunny still believed a connection was possible. She used our love for bugs to reach out, the way she always did—through small, harmless wonders. Weeks earlier, in the garden, I was admiring the flowers in the orphanage garden, their colours dulled by neglect but stubbornly alive, when I spotted a ladybug resting on a leaf. Its red shell was bright, almost defiant against the green.

  Carefully, I lifted the leaf and carried it over to a girl our age, Francesca.

  As I was admiring the flowers in the orphanage, I caught a ladybug resting on a leaf and showed it to Francesca.

  “Look,” I whispered, holding it out to her. “I caught a ladybug. It brings good luck, you know.”

  Francesca smiled.

  Not a guarded smile, not a polite one—a real one. For a moment, the world shrank to that leaf, that tiny red body crawling slowly across it, and the shared belief that something good might happen to us. The moment was fragile and precious, like holding your breath underwater. Then a bigger boy stomped closer, and he crushed it with his thumb.

  “Oopsie.”

  Rage consumed me instantly.

  Sunny wanted to cry, grief bursting in her throat at the senselessness of it, at the cruelty wrapped in playfulness. Shadow wanted to shove the boy. My body tensed up, my fists clenched, muscles coiling, ready to strike. I stepped forward, and the boy flinched at the savagery in my eyes. That scared me more than it scared him.

  So I fled.

  I ran until my lungs burned, heart hammering against my ribs, disgusted by my own rage. Shadow protected me, but it also isolated me. Again.

  That afternoon, during free time, Sunny wanted to play football. She loved it—loved running, loved the way her body felt strong and fast and capable. I joined the game, telling myself I could handle it. For ten minutes, I almost believed that. It was exhilarating, liberating to laugh out loud, to sprint across the muddy field, to call for the ball and have it actually come to me. For those minutes, I was fully myself. Then someone shoved me from behind. It wasn’t malicious. Just part of the game, but it was enough. Enough for time and the space to disappear, I wasn’t standing in mud anymore—I was on a cold floor, the chill seeping into my bones. The laughter around me warped, stretched, and turned into screaming.

  Shadow took full control.

  I spun around, not shouting, not crying, but snarling—a sound that didn’t feel human at all. Silent, sharp, terrifying. My stance was wrong for a child, too grounded, too ready. The game stopped instantly. The ball rolled away, forgotten. The kids backed off, eyes wide.

  “It was an accident,” someone muttered, trying to sound annoyed beneath the fear. “Sheesh.”

  No one came closer after that.

  The moment of unfiltered freedom broke. Sunny was horrified, humiliated. Shadow stood guard, satisfied that the threat was neutralised, while I spent the rest of the hour alone on the swings, pushing myself listlessly. After those moments, and I had many of those, I would disappear into the bushes at the edge of the yard, where the grass grew wild, and the caretakers rarely looked. There, Sunny could breathe again. I would kneel in the dirt, careful, and collect beetles, ants, anything that moved. Bugs. I studied the curve of their shells, the way their legs worked in perfect sequences, how they followed invisible rules I could trust. Shadow watched quietly, approving of the solitude. Bugs didn’t lie, didn’t judge, didn’t shove you from behind. In the hush of rustling leaves and soft clicking wings, I could exist without being seen—and for once, that felt like enough.

  At dinner time, I was quiet, wrung out from the day’s internal war. My body felt heavy, like I had been bracing against something for hours without realising it. I made a small effort to be Sunny again—leaned toward the cook and complimented the bread, even though it was stale and dry at the edges.

  “It’s good today,” I said, forcing brightness into my voice.

  It was a feeble attempt. She barely looked at me. The words fell flat between us and stayed there. Sigh.

  Community time followed dinner, the one ritual everyone tolerated because it required nothing from us. We sat in rows and watched whatever had been chosen: documentaries, romantic comedies, animated movies that were supposed to be safe. Today, it was a documentary about penguins. Sunny was completely absorbed. She leaned forward, chin in her hands, a soft, unguarded smile on her face. I loved animals—the way they moved with purpose, the honesty of their lives. For twenty whole minutes, Shadow slept, and I was just a girl watching television, giggling quietly with the other children when the penguins waddled and tumbled over one another.

  Then the scene shifted.

  The music dropped away. The camera cut to the ice breaking open, to sleek movement beneath the surface. A leopard seal burst upward, fast and efficient, its jaws closing around a penguin chick. There was no warning, no time to look away. The violence was sudden and clinical, the chick shaken like an object, not a life. Sunny froze. Shadow snapped awake.

  The sudden death. The helplessness of the chick. Shadow slammed down, hard and absolute. The TV screen stopped being a screen—it became a window. A window into the inherent cruelty of the world, splashing across the walls in red, unavoidable and obscene. The room smelled wrong, felt wrong. I felt sick. I stood up without a word and walked out. Sister Martina called my name, sharp and irritated, but I ignored her. The hallway stretched and warped as I moved through it, my feet carrying me on instinct alone. I pushed into the bathroom and turned on the tap, splashing cold water onto my face again and again. My dark, wavy hair was no longer cascading in soft waves. It clung to my face in damp strands, like black worms plastered to my skin. My eyes—eyes that usually reflected a calm, open sky—were glowing an electric blue now, bright and feral, like those of frightened huskies cornered by noise and light. She looked scared…and tired.

  “Why can’t I just be normal again?” I pleaded, the words barely audible over the rush of water.

  Shadow answered without hesitation. Normal got you left behind. I will keep you safe.

  I held onto the sink, breathing hard, knowing that Shadow was right—and hating him for it.

  When I finally returned from the bathroom, I didn’t speak to anyone. I went straight to my bed, pulling the thin bedsheets over my trembling body like they could shield me from the world. The dormitory lights were already dimming, shadows stretching long and familiar across the walls. In the silent nights, the masks would come off. I was too tired to perform happiness, and too drained to calculate every reaction. I curled inward and clutched my Victorian doll, its porcelain face smooth and unreadable, its dress permanently frozen in gentler times. She never asked questions, never startled or disappointed me. Sunny drifted then, fragile but stubborn. She dreamed of a family—of a room of her own with a door she could close without fear. She dreamed of laughing freely, loudly, without checking the exits first, without counting how many eyes were on her or how close they stood. Shadow leaned close, its presence cool and familiar, and whispered its nightly mantra, the words worn smooth by repetition:

  It’s not real.

  Hope is a trap.

  Trust no one.

  Never let your guard down.

  I held the doll tighter as sleep crept in, caught between the warmth of Sunny’s dreams and the cold certainty of Shadow’s watch, knowing that morning would bring the bell again—and with it, the performance. The night arrived, and with it dreams and nightmares, but Shadow's protective mantra guarded us safely in its embrace.

  I’m your only guardian; never let your guard down.

  Yet the day I met them, he did.

  The glass was warm against my cheek, heated by the afternoon sun. Be Sunny, I told myself, like a spell that had worked once and might work again. But the memory of yesterday’s nightmare still clung to me, heavy and unshaken, and my eyes drifted instead to the iron gates of the orphanage. On weekends, only Fiats and Lancias passed by the building. Compact cars, familiar shapes, filled with families dressed in their church clothes. I watched them slow, stop, disappear down the road again. Some were arriving somewhere. Others were leaving. All of them were going places—places I knew, with a certainty that hurt, had more laughter and choice and warmth than where I was. I pressed my forehead more firmly to the glass and tracked the movement the way I tracked insects in the bushes. Bugs were honest creatures with survival written plainly in their bodies. I understood them. Humans were messier. They pretended a lot.

  They smiled while leaving……and dying. They lied.

  Bugs followed rules you could learn, while people moved according to biological desires, promises, and secrets that stayed out of reach. Sound dragged, time thickened, the whole world felt loud, slow, and random. And yet, I couldn’t deny that their unpredictability was also what made them interesting. Just like the black Alfa Romeo stopping right then, 20 meters away from the gates. It didn’t belong, and that’s why it caught my attention. I watched as they stepped out. A tall Italian man stepped out first. He had a kind, open face and verdant eyes, the sort that lingered on the building as if he were already imagining something better inside it. He didn’t rush. Then a woman emerged from the driver’s seat. She was slightly shorter, her posture sharp and severe, her gaze immediately scanning the orphanage like she was searching for structural weaknesses—cracks in a dam before it burst. She didn’t look Italian. Eastern European, maybe. Ukrainian or Polish. Similar to people in my past life.

  Mom, Sunny said involuntarily, before Shadow could stop her.

  I clamped my hands over my ears as if that could force it back in, as if I could undo the floods of images of her. Shadow surged too late, furious and panicked, trying to seal the breach. It’s not her! You know that. Shadow urged me to use logic and pushed Sunny away. Come on, focus on something else! Look, someone else is stepping out of the car. A girl!

  I took two deep breaths, blinked twice and finally saw her.

  Just a girl.

  The difference between them was obvious, though not in a stark black-and-white way. It was more like dark chocolate and light caramel candy. And the similarities between them were far greater than the differences. Like twins. That image soothed something tight in my chest. The tension eased, quietly, instantly. She was wrapped in a coat that didn’t belong here. She didn’t fidget, she just… observed. Her gaze felt physical, sweeping over everything with calm, measuring attention, as if she were already cataloguing the place the way I did—with care and caution. With parents, a car, and a bodyguard like that, there was no way they would even look my way—just another child behind glass, another indistinct shape in a window. I let my forehead rest against it again and watched them move forward, knowing I would remain exactly where I was. Sister Martina’s fake cheer echoed up the stairs to the dorms, and me.

  And when she called my name, the other kids’ stares landed like pinpricks, sharp and uncomfortable. Even I flinched for a moment, though I tried not to show it. My body tensed automatically, counting the angles, calculating the consequences, but I wasn’t expecting any change from the last visitors, just two weeks ago. I knew exactly how their excited faces would shift the instant Sister Martina explained why I was here. Their curiosity would warp into judgment, and some would lean in with envy. Some would look away in relief that it wasn’t them. I could see it all already, running through probabilities in my mind. Even as I followed her to the office, the logical side of me braced for disappointment; I knew it. Yet against any logical reasoning, Sunny's hope did not waver.

  I hated that she believed, but also…I envied her.

  When I entered the office, they were all there, the family from the car outside. The father’s head lifted eagerly as Sister Martina gestured for me to sit in the chair facing them, positioned neatly beside her desk, as if I were an item being presented.

  “Here we are,” she said, settling into her chair. “Sofiya, say hello to the Fracassi family. They’ve come all the way from England to visit our home.” She signalled at me with her eyebrows, insistently.

  Shadow stirred, unsettled. No one travels that far for nothing. Stay alert.

  “Hello. Nice to meet you,” I said cautiously, my voice carefully neutral. The father introduced them one by one, each name accompanied by a thoughtful pause, as though he wanted me to truly see them—not just hear them. “My name is Giovanni.”

  His voice was warm, every word chosen with a deliberate kindness that felt both foreign and disarming. His hair was dark and wind-touched, falling in loose, unplanned waves, as though branches and breezes had shaped it along the way. A short beard framed his face, giving him the look of a traveller who had learned patience from long paths and quiet mornings. His green eyes were steady and thoughtful.

  “This is my wife, Patricia,” he continued, his hand gently indicating the woman of colour beside him.

  Her features were elegant and sure—arched brows, full lips set in thoughtful repose, a long neck that gave her the aura of a famous person, unknown to the world. Her hair formed a soft crown of tight curls, close to her head. Her deep brown eyes looked forward with a calm strength, as if she had been through tough times.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Sofiya,” she said, offering a composed, genuine smile.

  Then his focus softened as he turned slightly. “And this is our daughter… Aurora.”

  The girl in the chair did not react the way other children usually did. Interesting. She had warm, very light brown skin with a soft, even glow typical of biracial kids. Her face was round and expressive, with full cheeks and a gentle jawline. Her eyes were brown, drawing attention to their shape and depth. Her hair was dark brown, tightly curled, and styled into one high ponytail. Her expression was neutral yet self-assured, composed, with a hint of quiet confidence. There was no shy hiding, no eager fidgeting; she simply sat, still, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes locked onto me and nodded.

  “Aurora’s very excited to be here, even if she doesn’t show it,” Giovanni added. His tone was warm and sincere, but the sentence itself sounded rehearsed, like a social script practised for her benefit. Shadow leaned closer. Something is going on with her.

  Sunny’s usual response would have been: “Piacere!” or “Welcome to Italy!” but the words died in my throat. This wasn’t a wealthy couple looking for a cute addition to their family photo. It felt like deliberate attempts at framing the family in a positive light. It was strange.

  “We are here because you are a special girl,” Giovanni said at last. “Just like my little star, Aurora.”

  Special? Does he mean… disturbed? Both personalities questioned his words. The word didn’t feel like a compliment; it felt like a dirty label.

  My eyes fluttered back to the girl—Aurora. Her weird, intense gaze was a mirror of me. They were examining something. The dad’s gentle awkwardness and the mother’s sharp watchfulness made sense now. That means they will prioritise the challenged biological child over the adopted one even more than the previous parents. Shadow stated. They won’t be easy.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The dad spoke again.

  “It’s very loud out there,” he said, gesturing gently toward the common room. “That many people… it must be difficult to find a quiet corner for your thoughts.”

  The comment was so unexpected, so disarming, that my mind went blank for a heartbeat. I just stared at him. My gaze slid past his shoulder to the window instead. Shadow snapped into motion, noting the make and model of their car, the partially covered license plate, and the exact time glowing on the dashboard clock. I gave a tiny, jerky nod.

  “Sofiya is a bright little thing, really,” Sister Martina began. Her voice had turned syrupy, too sweet, like fruit gone soft. She placed a heavy hand on my shoulder—meant to be reassuring, meant to display ownership. It felt like a weight, not comfort. I had seen this film before, and I never liked the ending. “However…” she continued. The word hovered in the air, a trapdoor creaking open. My spine went rigid. Sunny wanted to smile, to prove her wrong, but Shadow knew better. “She can be… a lot to handle,” Sister Martina said, lowering her voice into a conspiratorial whisper meant for them—but I heard every syllable. “Her moods are… unpredictable. One moment she’s happy to play and talk with the other children, and the next…” She waved her free hand vaguely. “She has… episodes.” She sounded professionally concerned.

  Each word landed like a blade between my shoulders.

  I fixed my gaze on a scuff mark on the floor, using it as an anchor, trying to detach from my body before the rest of me followed. I could feel their eyes on me anyway, the quiet recalculation happening in real time. Giovanni’s warm curiosity cooled into caution. Patricia’s analytical gaze sharpened, searching for the flaws Sister Martina was so generously outlining. This was the part where they usually left. It was the part where Sunny’s hope, that stupid, fragile thing, died.

  “Despite everything that happened…in Positano, she is still holding on.” Sister Martina ended.

  Those two words turned a key in a lock I had believed rusted shut. No one was supposed to say that name here. It had been sealed away, buried under routines and bleach and bells. No one.

  The father spoke quickly, stepping over her words as if to soften their impact. “We know about your brother, Andrea,” he said, his voice low and weighted, not performative, just heavy. “And what happened after.”

  “We know you were the one who had to call the police.” The mother added.

  They knew.

  The moment everything split in two. They knew that my entire family had decided I was not a sufficient reason to stay. In a blink, I was a year younger again, back in that living room, hands clamped over my ears, waiting for the sound of the gun to stop echoing.

  Aurora's voice broke the illusion, right at the perfect time.

  “Your file indicates you have been here for eleven months and six days.” Her voice was clear, factual. Unemotional. I froze. My hand, resting on my knee, twitched—a small, involuntary movement. Thumb to index finger. Thumb to middle finger. Counting. Always counting. A self-soothing pattern I hadn’t known I was doing until it was already there. I managed a nod after a couple of deep breaths. Aurora leaned forward. “Your pupils have dilated by forty-two per cent,” she said calmly. “Your breathing pace has become irregular, which means you are accessing a traumatic memory.”Her words were so clinical—and paradoxically, they steadied me. It pulled me back into the room.

  “Aurora… be gentle,” her father said softly, guiding her back against the chair. “We’re not here to make you talk about it.”

  He exchanged glances with his wife. A silent conversation passed between them—concern, consent, resolve. Giovanni gave a single, almost imperceptible nod before turning back to me. His expression was open, earnest in a way that hurt to look at directly.

  “Sofiya,” he said, carefully, “our daughter, Aurora, is very special. Her mind works in incredible ways.” He paused, choosing his next words with visible care. “But the world… the world can be very loud, confusing, and sometimes unkind for someone like her.” He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as if proximity alone could soften the truth. “We came here to find her a sister. Possibly, someone close to her age who will stand by her—not as a carer—but to help her navigate the things that don’t come naturally.” His breath caught, just barely. “We are looking for someone who can care for her… and be cared for in return.”

  “I cannot have any more children,” Patricia said quietly. “But our family has so much love to give. We felt that adopting a child was the right thing to do.”Aurora never wavered when she added her piece after them.

  “The world is… loud, chaotic and slow.” She sounded detached, but her eyes betrayed a hint of uncertainty. “A sibling would provide a 73% higher probability of successful acclimation to new environments, such as a school setting.”

  The words mirrored the thoughts I’ve had since I was 3 years old, and they have never changed since. The people were always the cause of it, never the animals. Sunny latched onto it instantly, a lifeline: She’s lonely. She’s trying to say she’s lonely. She needs us. But Shadow wasn’t trusting of them yet. It’s a risky deal. What happens when they don’t need you anymore? What happens when you have another episode? I looked at her—such a small, serious figure, laying out her loneliness like a math problem—to the parents, watching, waiting for my response. They are not really offering a family; they are offering a job position, Shadow declared. Sunny wanted to beam, to throw her arms around this strange, brilliant girl and promise to be the best sister ever. Of course, I’ll be your sister! Pinky promise! The need was a physical ache, a desperate hunger to be chosen, to be given a purpose this important. But Shadow didn’t allow that. It was a cold, still weight in my chest, its arms crossed, its gaze fixed on the adults.

  “You… really want me?” The question slipped out before I could stop it. Shadow’s doubt, spoken through Sunny’s fragile hope. It left my throat raw and small.

  “Yes,” Aurora answered, her voice quieter than before, almost gentle.

  It should have sounded cold, but it didn’t. She said it the way you stated gravity—not a feeling, but an unmovable fact. And for the first time, Giovanni didn’t correct her. He didn’t translate her words into something warmer. He just smiled, his eyes shining.

  “Yes, Sofiya. We do.”

  Those three words landed in my chest. The ‘we’ fractured something inside me. It was not just his want or Aurora’s logical need. They had all, in their own way, reached a consensus.

  They want…me.

  For one breathless second, they were both silent—stunned by the sheer, impossible weight of it. I could feel it, the terrible pull of that hope. A warm, golden, imaginary future where I had a bed that is always mine, a chair at a table, a name that isn’t just a label on a file. A sister.

  Yet, no matter the warmth of their words, beneath, the ice of doubt kept my feet still, because their certainty was a cliff edge. The memory of that other room, that other family, was a black hole sucking all the light out of this one. When I spoke, my voice didn’t sound like it belonged to me.

  “You want me,” I said, staring at a loose thread in the rug, “but you don’t know me.” I forced myself to look up, first at the dad, then at the mom, finally letting my gaze settle on Aurora. “Nobody wants a disturbed child.” The words cut through the silence like a shard of glass. “This mess inside my head. Sunny and Shadow.” My voice hardened—not with anger, but with a tired, resigned certainty. “You want a daughter now, while it’s still easy, but when you really know me—when you see Shadow up close—you’ll get scared, you’ll get tired, and you’ll realise I’m not worth the trouble.” The words came steadily, practised by years of silence. “And then you’ll leave.” I let the last truth surface at last, the one that had governed my life since the day the police took me away from home.

  “Just like she did.”

  The silence that followed was absolute. It stretched so long, so vast, that I had to look up just to make sure they were still there. They were. The father looked utterly shattered, as if I had struck him with something solid and unforgiving. The mother’s face had gone pale, her hand moving instinctively to rest on Aurora’s shoulder—a gesture of primal protection, older than thought. Aurora herself remained still, her analytical gaze fixed on me, but for the first time since I’d met her, something in her expression faltered. Confusion. I hadn’t rejected them. I had done them a kindness—shown them the exit before they were forced to search for it themselves. Then the father moved. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered himself onto one knee, placing himself beneath my eye level. Making himself smaller. Less imposing. His eyes were shining, full to the brink, but he didn’t let the tears fall.

  “Oh, sweet girl,” His voice was thick with emotion. His voice was thick with emotion, but it didn’t waver. “Listen to me.” He took a breath, steadying himself. “The things you went through… they are part of you. And we want all of it. Because that is what family does.” He looked at me as if he had all the time in the world. He offered unconditional love.

  “My husband is right,” Patricia said. Her voice, carrying a gravity that made it impossible to dismiss. “We do not know the full depth of the damage,” she continued, meeting my gaze without flinching, “and you do not know the full depth of our resolve either. So don’t be so hasty in deciding for all of us.” She rested her hand more firmly on Aurora’s shoulder, anchoring her. “We do not break. We do not leave. And we are not her.” The words were precise, deliberate. “Our family is not built on the sand of easy promises. It is built on necessity and choice.”She inhaled slowly. “We choose you. And we are prepared to prove it—every single day—for as long as it takes for you to believe it.”

  She wasn’t asking for trust, but time.

  Aurora blinked blankly, looking at them. Then, she looked back at me, her head tilting with a new, more respectful curiosity. She slid from her chair and took a small step forward, closing the physical distance.

  “Your current belief system is based on your mother’s decisions,” she said. “This is a singular data point, not a universal law. Applying her failure to all future caregivers is statistically unsound and detrimental to all parties involved.” She said, correcting me. “Our motivations are different,” she continued. “And our needs are different. But the probability of us leaving you is zero per cent, because you are a decisive choice we have decided to make.”

  “How can you be sure?” I heard myself ask, the doubt still lodged deep.

  “I cannot claim certainty,” she acknowledged. “But I can provide consistent, verifiable evidence to support my conclusion.” Her voice softened, just a fraction. “I will be here tomorrow, the next day, and the day after that.” It was the only promise that felt solid to her.

  They didn’t just say we won’t leave. Each of them dismantled the foundation of my belief from a different angle—emotion, resolve, logic—showing me that staying wasn’t just a feeling. It was a decision. The walls around my heart didn’t collapse, and none of the bricks trembled, but...a door was built. Slowly, hesitantly—like moving through deep water—I slid off my chair as well and extended my hand. It was usually clenched into a fist or hidden in a pocket. Now it was open. My fingers trembled faintly as they brushed against Aurora's. Her hand remained still. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she looked down at our hands, assessing. Then she lifted her gaze to meet mine and gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.

  I closed my fingers gently around hers.

  The contact felt like an electric current that stole my breath. For a fraction of a second, her eyebrows jumped in surprise, and just as quickly, she adjusted. She didn’t tighten her grip. She didn’t withdraw. She stayed. That was enough. I looked at her parents. My voice came out fragile and husky, barely more than a whisper, yet it rang with absolute conviction in the stillness of the room.

  “I will hold you to that,” I said. “I will be the best daughter and sister.” I swallowed. “I will be so necessary that you will never even think of leaving.”The rest of the sentence stayed locked inside me, heavy and unformed. A truth I wasn’t ready to give words to.

  Because if you do, Shadow will finally… destroy everything.

  Myself included.

  Sister Martina's office looked smaller, the air felt thicker, charged with a decision that had already been made, but still needed to be stamped into reality. Her smile was fixed, a brittle thing that didn’t reach her eyes. She clasped her hands on the desk, the wood groaning under the weight of the moment.

  “Signor Fracassi,” she began, her voice overly formal. “Your… interest in Sofiya is… unexpected. Are you certain this is your final decision?” She made it sound like they were choosing a broken appliance. Not a person. Shadow bristled, a silent snarl in the back of my mind. The dad didn’t hesitate. He stood a little straighter, his kind face set with a resolve I’d never seen directed at me before.

  “It is,” he said, his voice warm and firm. “We are certain.”

  “Completely.” Patricia nodded.

  Sister Martina’s eyes flickered between them, searching for a crack, a hint of doubt. Finding none, her shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly in what might have been resignation. She turned her gaze to me, and it was different now. She looked a little worried…for us, maybe.

  “Very well. Sofiya,” she said tightly. “Go to the dormitory and gather your belongings. There is a cardboard box ready in the closet near the stairs. Place everything you have with you inside it. That is all you may take.”

  The instruction was so mundane, so devastatingly practical—a box. My entire life, reduced to a box. Sunny wanted to cry, to laugh, to scream. Shadow was already inventorying my miserable possessions: the Victorian doll, the two changes of clothes, the stolen pencil. But I wasn’t going alone, Sunny decided. Before the nun could say another word, Sunny was in motion, my hand—the one that had just asked a question of Aurora’s—shot out and closed around her wrist. Her skin was cool, her pulse a steady, rhythmic beat against my fingers, but Sunny wasn't asking for permission from the stern-faced director; she turned her brightest, most hopeful gaze on the dad, the one whose eyes held the warmth I desperately wanted to trust.

  “Can Aurora come with me?” Sunny asked him, her voice bubbling with an excitement that made the drab office feel suddenly brighter. A wide, genuine smile broke across the dad’s face, as if Sunny had just given him a gift rather than asked a favour. His eyes crinkled at the corners, glowing with approval.

  “Of course she can,” he said, his voice warm and encouraging. He then looked directly at Aurora, his tone softening into gentle reassurance. “That’s a wonderful idea. You two go on, we’ll be right here filling up the paperwork.”

  “Come on!” Sunny chirped. I didn’t wait for a response; I pulled. Aurora’s body went rigid for a microsecond because of the unplanned physical contact, but Shadow was there, a silent partner in the grip. While Sunny provided the pull, Shadow provided the reason, whispering a cold, logical truth through our linked hands:

  This is insurance. Do not let go.

  Aurora did not try to resist; she allowed herself to be pulled, although stiff in motion.

  “We have to go get my things! I have to show you my bed! And the window where I watch the birds! And Maria’s hidden candy stash—don’t tell!” Sunny’s words tumbled out, a chaotic stream of consciousness directed at her new, bewildered sister.

  Giovanni and Patricia watched, a mixture of awe and amusement on their faces. The mom gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod to the bodyguard, who was already moving from her post by the door. She fell into step behind us. The door shut, leaving the adults to the paperwork. Out in the corridor, Sunny didn’t slow down, but half-skipped, half-ran.

  “This way! It’s faster past the kitchen, but we have to be quiet, or Chef Andrea will give us potatoes to peel!”

  I pulled her along, and she came, but it was like towing a very smart, serious statue. The bodyguard's head was on a swivel, those stormy eyes scanning everything—the doorways, the windows, the shadows in the hall. I could almost feel the gears turning in her head, assessing threats and exits, treating our walk like a mission, but as I babbled on, pointing out the Dragon crack and my secret feather-hiding spot, something shifted. I felt it in her hand. It was still cool in mine, but the stiffness lessened, just a fraction. She was still listening, but now she was cataloguing me. My chatter, my silly names, my joy— I saw a flicker of authentic curiosity. The cardboard flap was rough under my fingers. I focused on the simple task, folding the faded blue dress—the one with the tiny, almost-invisible flowers—to fit in the bottom of the box. Sunny went quiet now, soothed by the nearness of my new sister, who watched everything with those calm, unblinking eyes. But the feeling of being watched wasn’t just coming from her. My hands stilled on the dress. The softness of the fabric suddenly felt like a lie. It felt like a switch had been turned on —a sharp, internal pop—followed by a sudden, silent hum of high alert. The warm light in the room seemed to dim, the shadows in the corners stretching and deepening. It was like a vault door slamming shut behind my eyes, and when I looked at the bodyguard again, I saw her only through Shadow’s cold, analytical lens. From her top bunk, Maria’s reading was too staged; her eyes, sharp and unblinking, tracked our every move from over the spine of her book. On the floor, Chiara and Lucia’s card game had stalled, their whispers a hissing undercurrent beneath the distant shout from the courtyard. We were being consumed by their gaze, and each glance was a tiny hook in my skin, pulling Shadow to the surface.

  I didn't mean to speak. The words just came out, but they weren't in my voice. I shifted my gaze to Aurora.

  “Shadow wants to know,” I said, and the sound was alien even to my own ears. I saw the exact moment Aurora registered the change. Her pupils dilated slightly. I saw from the corner of my eye that Maria’s book had lowered. Chiara elbowed Lucia, and they both stared, confused yet curious.

  “Look, she is talking to herself again.” I heard them whisper.

  They waited for the new girl to recoil, to look confused or scared, just like they always did, but Aurora just… listened. Her lack of fear was a shield, and for the first time, I didn’t feel like I was putting on a show for the gallery. But Shadow didn’t care; he locked onto Aurora.

  “Why does your family need a security guard?” The question hung in the air, blunt and heavy. “She’s not just a driver,” I continued, my voice low. Shadow was in control, and Shadow was a detective, piecing together the evidence of a crime that hadn't happened yet. “I saw her checking the locks on the car twice. She stands like a soldier with her left ear slightly angled toward the window as if she’s monitoring two potential entry points, the hall and the gates, simultaneously.” My eyes flicked to the doorway, just for a heartbeat, before locking back on Aurora. I didn’t need to see to know the truth. “The way her jacket pulls taut when she crosses her arms. The specific, weighted drag on the right side means she has a gun.”

  Aurora didn’t even blink. She gave a single, slow nod of… was she impressed?

  “Your assessment is correct,” she stated, her voice devoid of alarm, filled only with pure analysis. “The weapon is a SIG Sauer P226, and your calculation of its positioning is accurate. Iris’s function is to mitigate external threats. Her presence increases our collective survival probability by 88.4%.”

  “Iris? That's her name?” I asked and checked the woman again in the corner of my eye

  “Yes.” She nodded and paused to think further. “Your observations are… exceptional and valuable.” She then delivered the final, staggering blow to my defences:

  “She is here to protect you now, as well. Your safety has become her primary objective, too.”

  I felt the air leave my lungs in a quiet rush. She wasn’t afraid of Shadow and so ever wary, he retreated slightly, satisfied by the answer. He had no sharp retort this time. The word “valuable” echoed in the silent space between us, a word that had never, ever been applied to me. When Aurora spoke her calm, logical facts about survival probabilities and valuable functions, the silence in the dorm was absolute. Maria’s mouth was actually hanging open. I finally inhaled, the other girls fading into the background as they didn't matter anymore. Before I could even process it, Aurora took a small step closer, stared at my face with a pure, unadulterated curiosity that was somehow more intense than any stare I’d ever endured.

  “The shift in your vocal tone and observational priorities was significant,” she stated, her voice low. “Who is ‘Shadow?’” My throat became slightly tight again. “Can you clarify?” she continued, as if she were asking about a relative of mine. “How many distinct entities do you have?” The question was so blunt, so devoid of judgment, that it bypassed Sunny’s embarrassment and Shadow’s defensiveness entirely.

  “Two." I heard myself whisper. “Sunny and Shadow.”

  Aurora processed this, her gaze flicking inward. “Why have you labelled them ‘Sunny’ and ‘Shadow’?” she asked. “Are the names self-assigned or externally applied?”This time, Shadow answered, the voice still flat but lacking its previous aggressive edge. Aurora’s clinical approach was a language he seemed to like.“Self-assigned. The labels are efficient as they describe the primary function.”

  “Define the functions,” Aurora said, her focus absolute.

  “Sunny is for…for connection, for hope. It is the desire to engage with the environment positively.” I explained, a sliver of Sunny’s warmth bleeding into the explanation.

  “And Shadow?” Aurora prompted.

  “Shadow analyse and protect. It processes threats, holds the anger, and remembers so that Sunny does not have to. It is the function that ensures survival.”In the silence that followed, I realised the whispers from the other bunks had stopped completely. They hadn't understood a word of it, but they were now staring at Aurora.

  “The division is logical. A specialised system for managing complex social and survival-based stimuli.” She had categorised the what, but now she needed the why. “Why was their creation necessary?” she asked. The question was a scalpel, precise and sharp, bypassing all Sharow’s defences. He let his guard down. Sunny wanted to give a white lie, but the answer came out in Shadow’s voice, stripped bare.

  “Because our home was not safe anymore,” I said, completely open now. “The emotional trauma caused by our previous caretaker was too much for one single mind,” I continued, the words a shield against the pain they described. “So to maintain neurological function, a partition was created.” Aurora’s gaze was intense, utterly focused.

  “So ‘Shadow’ is not merely a behavioural state,” she deduced. “It is the designated containment vessel to manage safety. It is also in charge of defending the mind against potential triggering events and people?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, stunned by her flawless diagnosis. “Sunny operates on keeping us socially integrated while Shadow keeps us aware of our surroundings.”After a moment of silence, she spoke, her voice softer than I’d ever heard it, yet no less analytical.

  “I understand,” she said. “The trauma exceeded the processing capacity of a single consciousness, and so a binary system was created to handle the overflow. Your mind did not break, ” She looked at me, and in her cool, analytical eyes, I saw a respect that felt more validating than any pity. “It performed an emergency rewrite to save itself.” Her words were the most profound acceptance I had ever known. The tension that had held my body rigid finally released. I looked down at my hands, one that wanted to hold on and one that wanted to fight, and a wave of weary sadness washed over the strange peace.

  “I don't know if I will be able to be whole again someday,” I whispered, the words feeling true and fragile in the quiet room. “But for now... this is how I work.” Aurora was silent for a long moment, her usual torrent of words replaced by a rare, quiet stillness. She looked at our joined hands, then back at my face, her brow furrowed in a new, unfamiliar effort.

  “The... entities," she started, then stopped, dismissing her own technical term as inadequate. She tried again, her voice quieter, more tentative. “Sunny and Shadow...they are not a faulty code.” The effort was immense. I could see it. “They are... two strong hands,” she finally said, the metaphor clumsy and beautiful in its rarity. “One to hold the good things and one to guard the bad.” She looked at me, and her gaze pleaded for me to understand her meaning. “You do not need to be one-handed. You need to learn to clap.” It was the most beautiful and imperfect thing I had ever heard. A sound escaped my mouth. It wasn't a laugh or a sob, but something entirely new—the sound of a weight I didn’t know I was carrying finally being set down.

  She didn’t try to fix me. She had… met me where I was. A tear escaped, tracing a clean path through the dust on my cheek. I didn’t brush it away.

  “Yeah,” I breathed, my voice thick with a hope so fierce it threatened to crack me open. I tightened my grip on her hand. “Yes, Aurora. Maybe we can learn to clap.”I finished packing my box, feeling lighter than ever. The moment of vulnerability had passed, but I was in a bright place now. The bodyguard moved to pick it up for me, and as we turned to leave the dormitory, one of the older girls, Maria, finally spoke up.

  “Finished packing your crazy into a box, Volkova?” She mocked me, lazily trying to break the peaceful moment. “Hope your new family has a good lock for the attic.”It was a cruel, predictable jab. A week ago, it would have landed, but now, something different happened. Before Shadow could even surge forward, Aurora faced the older girl.

  “Your attempt to provoke an emotional response is useless.” Her response was direct. “Your premise is flawed because attics are structurally unsound for long-term habitation. Furthermore, her value is not determined by your inaccurate assessment, but by a factual constant.”

  The dormitory was silent for a beat. Maria blinked. The other girls just looked confused, their brains trying and failing to process the alien language that had just landed in their midst.

  “What does that even mean, you weirdo?” Chiara finally broke, scoffing to cover her own bewilderment.

  The old me would have either exploded or shrunk away, but not today. I just grinned. A wide, sunny and cheeky triumphant grin. I looped my arm through Aurora's, feeling the solid, steady weight of her beside me. I turned to face them, the audience of my old life. I placed my free left thumb on the left side of my temple, waggling my fingers in their stupid, ‘crazy’ sign, and stuck my tongue out.

  “It means,” I sang out, my voice dripping with a triumph so sweet it made my head spin, “I get to leaveeee... and you gotta staaayy!”

  I dragged the vowels, letting them hang in the air, a glorious, melodic taunt. I watched their faces change from mock to annoyance and frustration, and it was like breathing pure sunlight. They got it, but also didn’t, because the crazy girl got chosen and they didn’t.

  They will never get it.

  I didn't need their understanding; I had something infinitely better: an ally. I gave a final, cheeky wave to their stunned silence, squeezed Aurora's arm and looked toward the door. The bodyguard stood there, a silent sentinel. And was that…?A smile? For a single, breathtaking second, I could have sworn I saw a smirk on her face.

  “Come on, Aurora,” I said, my voice clear and light, finally belonging to me and no one else. “Let's go home.”

  The goodbyes with the nuns were a blur of paperwork and stiff, insincere smiles. Then we were outside. The car door closed behind us with a soft, solid thunk that felt more final than the orphanage gates. I watched through the tinted window as the ochre building shrank, then vanished around a corner. For the first time, Sunny’s hope didn’t feel loud. It felt…possible. The silence in the car was thick, humming with the engine and everything left unsaid. Giovanni and Patricia were in the front, speaking in low tones. The bodyguard was a statue in the driver's seat, her eyes constantly scanning the world through the windshield. I turned to Aurora, who was sitting perfectly still beside me, observing the passing Italian countryside view. The joy was still there, a bright, warm sun in my chest. I took a breath. Sunny asked the question, but Shadow was the one who truly wanted to know.

  “Aurora?” I said, my voice quieter now, meant only for her. She turned her head, focusing on me with that unnerving, complete attention. “What is your real name?” Shadow asked openly. A question that has been itching his thoughts since I first saw the rigidity of the bodyguard.

  She became still.

  I leaned a little closer, my voice dropping to a whisper only she could hear over the road noise.

  “A family that needs a 24/7 bodyguard with a SIG Sauer isn’t regular. They’re either extremely famous, or work for some secret part of the government...” I let the sentence hang in the air for a second, my gaze flicking to the back of the bodyguard’s head before returning to hers. “...or they’re running from someone.”I held Aurora’s gaze, waiting. “Shadow wants to know.”

  Aurora didn’t look taken aback as she seemed to understand how my mind worked now. I held my new sister’s gaze, my heart pounding a rhythm of fear and fierce hope because I knew then…

  The adoption was a cover.