The old television in the common room of Casa de los Niños flickered with the grainy quality that had become familiar to its residents over the years, but tonight, the ancient screen might as well have been broadcasting pure magic.
Twenty-three children, ranging in age from eight to sixteen, sat transfixed before the glowing rectangle, their eyes reflecting not just the light from the screen but the dreams that had been kindled within these walls by a boy who had once sat among them.
Sister María Elena stood at the back of the room, her weathered hands clasped tightly together, rosary beads threaded between her fingers.
She had seen countless children pass through these doors, each carrying their own hopes and heartaches, but none had captured her heart quite like the silent boy who had arrived fifteen years ago with eyes that held too much pain for someone so young.
