Flashback
The first thing Mira Rowan ever learned about love was that it had a troubling habit of disappearing without notice.
She was four—an age when mornings still felt magical and problems could usually be solved with a hug and something shaped like a dinosaur. Back then, her world was small, safe, and centered almost entirely around the gentle hum of her mother moving through their tiny apartment.
That morning had been painfully ordinary.
Sunlight leaked through the cracked kitchen window, stretching across the floor in lazy golden strips. The toaster had done what it always did—burn the bread beyond redemption—leaving the air perfumed with the scent of charcoal masquerading as breakfast. Mira sat swinging her legs from a chair far too tall for her, humming to herself while her stuffed bear kept watch from the table like a very furry bodyguard.
Her mother knelt in front of her, tucking rebellious curls behind Mira's ears with fingers that smelled faintly of soap and exhaustion.
"Be good today, baby," she whispered.
Her breath was warm. Her smile was soft.
There was no grand farewell. No trembling lip. No sense that the universe was quietly shifting on its axis.
Just routine.
Just love disguised as another ordinary morning.
By evening, the apartment felt different—too still, too hollow, like even the walls were holding their breath.
When the door finally creaked open, it wasn't her mother who stepped inside.
It was a stranger.
The woman wore a stiff gray suit that looked allergic to comfort and carried two things: a clipboard tucked tightly against her chest and a black garbage bag that crackled with quiet finality. Adults always underestimated how loud a garbage bag could sound to a child.
Mira stood in the middle of the living room, clutching her stuffed bear so tightly its fur had gone patchy from years of enthusiastic affection. One of its button eyes hung slightly loose, giving it a permanently worried expression—which, at the moment, felt appropriate.
The woman crouched down to Mira's height with the careful precision of someone trained not to startle wounded animals.
"Hi, sweetie," she said gently. "I'm Ms. Harlan."
Her voice was soft, but practiced—rounded at the edges from being used in too many hard conversations.
"Your mom's… she's not coming back right now. We're going to find you a safe place to stay, okay?"
Right now.
Even at four, Mira understood that right now was one of those slippery adult phrases that could stretch into forever.
She didn't cry.
Didn't scream.
Didn't ask the question clawing silently at her chest.
She simply nodded, her dark eyes wide, steady, absorbing.
Because children always know.
They know when laughter won't return to a room.
When a favorite song has been played for the last time.
When the ground beneath their tiny feet fractures—and nothing will ever fit together quite the same way again.
In that quiet moment, something inside Mira shifted. Not loudly, not dramatically.
Just a small, invisible crack.
And through it seeped her very first understanding of love:
Sometimes it leaves.
And sometimes… it doesn't even say goodbye.
*******
Saint Bartholomew's Orphanage didn't just sit on the edge of town—it brooded there.
The building rose from the earth like an old gray fortress that had long since given up on being loved. Rain had gnawed at its stone walls for decades, carving thin veins down the surface like permanent tear tracks. Even on bright days, the place seemed determined to look overcast.
Inside, the air carried a signature scent no one ever forgot: harsh industrial detergent battling endlessly against the damp, ghostly smell of overboiled cabbage drifting from the kitchen. It was the kind of odor that clung to your clothes, your hair… maybe even your soul if you stayed long enough.
Winters were the worst.
Cold slipped through the drafty windows with the stealth of a seasoned thief, creeping under doors, crawling across the floors, and settling deep into small bones that had never known real warmth. No matter how many layers the children wore, the chill always seemed to find skin.
Mira learned early that fighting it was pointless.
Her bed sat in a long dormitory lined with identical metal frames, arranged with military precision as if comfort were a punishable offense. The mattress sagged beneath her slight weight, its springs groaning softly whenever she shifted—as though even the bed resented the effort.
Each night, she curled into herself beneath a scratchy wool blanket that felt less like protection and more like an agreement: I'll pretend to keep you warm if you pretend this is enough.
Outside, the wind howled around the building, rattling the windows with restless fingers. Mira would listen to it for hours, quietly negotiating with the cold.
If you stop biting, I'll stop shivering.
If you let me sleep, I won't complain tomorrow.
Eventually, exhaustion always won.
It usually did.
Children passed through Saint Bartholomew's the way seasons passed through a year—predictable, unstoppable, and never staying quite long enough to matter.
The little ones arrived frightened and wide-eyed, clutching plastic bags filled with everything their lives had been reduced to.
The older ones carried harder expressions, their gazes already learning the dangerous art of expecting nothing.
Then there was Tommy.
He blew in one rainy afternoon like a burst of misplaced sunshine, freckles splashed across his nose and a grin too big for his face. Within an hour, he was parading his toy cars across the dormitory floor, providing dramatic commentary for each imaginary race.
"This one's a turbo," he informed Mira very seriously. "It can outrun the police."
She almost smiled.
Two weeks later, a station wagon rolled up the gravel drive.
Just like that—Tommy was someone's forever.
"See ya, Mira!" he shouted from the back seat, waving so hard his entire arm seemed at risk of detaching.
She stood at the window, her face pressed against the icy glass, watching until the car shrank into the distance… then vanished completely.
Chosen.
They were always chosen.
One by one.
Like names being called from a list that never seemed to include hers.
After a while, Mira stopped asking why.
Some questions were sharp things. The more you touched them, the deeper they cut.
Silence, at least, didn't bleed.
Still… one thought refused to leave her alone. It followed her into every long winter night, slipped beneath her blanket, and curled beside her like an unwelcome companion.
What was so wrong with her…
…that no one ever chose her?