The year was 1823, and I lived in a quaint and comfortable cottage in a very small town outside of Paris. I didn't ever bother giving anyone the name of it for a couple of reasons. One, because no one ever asked, and two, because it was so small, it hardly existed in anyone else's minds besides those who had inhabited it. It was far from luxurious, quite the opposite actually. There was more brown than there was green, there was more mud and muck then there was grass and flowers, there was more grey sky and rain then there was sun, but it was home for me. There was scarcely a smile on anyone's face, yet people were still polite. You see, in a town that hardly existed to outsiders, we knew the names of all who inhabited.

We were a town of routine, if nothing else. The husbands and their sons would be up before the sun, their scuffed up boots already on, trudging through the dirt roads to get to the farms or factories where they found work. While they were away, the wives and their daughters took care of the house, and had supper ready nice and warm for when their husbands and sons would arrive back home, exhausted, having only enough energy to eat quickly and go to sleep, only to do it all again the next day. My family fit seamlessly into this common routine. From what I can remember anyway. . .

My family was smaller than most. It was my father, my mother, and myself. After I came along, my mother could no longer bear living children, and so I became an only child. Perhaps they gave up when they realized it was hopeless, or perhaps my mother was put out of her misery when her body stopped flowering. Either way, I was never given any siblings to play with. Most of my childhood is so clouded, with only a few spots of clarity here and there. But there is one memory that stands out more vividly than others. One I could never quite forget. One that I relived in my dreams night after night for years. It never became cloudy, it never left my memory.

I was just shy of eight years, and winter had just begun to fade into spring. The sun had just begun to disappear behind the horizon, which meant that the factories were closing up, and the men were making their way home for supper.

"Emelie, darling!" My mother called out for me, her voice echoing with a mixture of tenderness yet urgency, "Come set the table, your father will be home from work any moment now, and I'm afraid dinner is running a little late."

"Yes, mama!" I answered from the small living room, the wooden floorboards creaking underneath my small feet as I stood and let my rag doll fall to the floor.

As I reached the kitchen, I grabbed one of the empty milk crates and made small grunts as I carried it to the cupboards, climbing on top of it, which caused me me grin to myself in light of that seemingly great feat.

After setting three clean plates on the table along with their accompanying napkins and silverware, I went back to playing with my doll by the fireplace, then I froze when I heard a dull knock at the door.

"Have you forgotten your key again?" My mother asked jokingly as she wiped her hands on her apron. Rightfully, she assumed it was my father knocking. He was an awfully forgetful man, and forgetting his house key was something he did every now and then. But there was no response, no chuckle, just silence. Until my mother opened the door, the smile on her face disappearing slowly.

"Madame..." Said an unfamiliar voice, a voice my ears had never heard before, which caused me to stand up, my doll cradled safely in my tiny arms. The man had taken off his hat in courtesy, lowering his head before he spoke, "I...regret to inform you that Monsieur Valois...will not be returning home today. Unfortunately, there was an unforeseen accident on the job today and he was killed. I'm sorry..."

Killed.

I saw the color drain from my mother's face. Her hand flew to her mouth as her eyes began to water and her bottom lip began to quiver. I saw her legs start to shake, her body begin to crumple. Then I remember the loud bang as she slammed the door in the unknown man's face. The loud noise caused me to jump, my doll making a dull thud as it fell from my arms to the floor.

"Mama...?" I whimpered, but I don't think she heard me. After she got the news, I don't think she ever heard me again. I remember calling out to her a second time, a third, a fourth. No response. Her world had shattered, her purpose for life taken away right from under her feet. She didn't weep, she didn't sob. She didn't hug me, she didn't comfort me, she didn't need me for comfort. She was shut off.

Days passed, and I never heard a word from her. A funeral was never planned. I never saw my father's body buried, and neither did she. Others came to the door to offer comfort, food, their empathy, but my mother never answered.

I clung to my doll, curled up in my bed, sometimes in my father's own shirts. I couldn't accept he was gone, and I believe that's why I didn't cry either. And to this very day, I still haven't. Even when it became real, even when I was left completely on my own. . .

My mother couldn't live without my father. She couldn't find the inspiration to get up in the morning, to cook his dinner, to clean his clothes, to shine his boots. Everything she lived for had died along with him. Everything that kept her alive was killed with him. And so, she took her own life. I found her one morning, lying unresponsively in the bed they shared for years, her eyes left open, a pool of blood soaking into the mattress. It was then, that very moment, where it all sunk in. Where I became completely alone. That was when my life was taken from me too.

Days must've passed before I came to my senses, because I remember wandering aimlessly. I was cold, wearing one of my father's shirts like a dress, my knotted hair in a messy braid, my shoes becoming split at the sole. I wonder now why it took so long for someone to finally stop me, to ask me why a little girl like me was wandering without a parent nearby. Eventually though, someone did. It was a woman, middle-aged, and she smelled of stale whiskey and soup. "Where're y'headed?" She asked with her raspy voice. A voice one would get from lifetimes of harsh liquors and rums.

"I...I don't know madame..." I answered with a prominent shiver in my voice, my arms wrapped around nothing but my own frail body. Even my doll had abandoned me.

"Y'don't know?" She asked in a mocking tone, and her rough and calloused hands pinched my chin, surveying my appearance. "Y'got parents 'round 'ere somewhere, girl?"

I shook my head, my facial expression emotionless, my feelings forced onto complete lockdown. "No, madame..."

"Agh! Poor girl, you and thousands of other kids! Come, y'need a place t'stay." Without even introducing herself, she grabbed my little hand and pulled me along.

I didn't think to stop her, I didn't think of anything at that time really. I didn't know where I was, nor did I much want to know.

Next thing I remember was approaching a large and unkept building. The paint was chipping off the wood, and some windows had broken glass, the drapes flowing into the night air. The mysterious lady pulled me inside, sat down at a desk, and brought out a large book. She licked her index finger and thumb, and flipped through the pages until she found a blank one, and picked up her quill, dipping it in some ink.

"Name?" She asked with a rather uncaring voice.

"Uh... Em- Emelie," I responded, "Emelie Valois" and I watched her scribble my name onto the page.

She also scribbled down my age, my approximate height and weight, my appearance, anything physical about me. The strangest part was...I never asked any questions. Not a single one. Soon after slamming the big and dusty book, she gestured for me to follow her again and led me up a few flights of stairs, down a long hallway with many doors, and into a room with rows and rows of wooden bunk beds.

"You sleep 'ere," She said, gesturing to an empty bottom bunk, with a two clean sets of clothes folded and set on top of the pillow. Day clothes, and pajamas. "Change and get t'bed."

And with that, she left again. I did as I was told, changing into the pajamas laid out, and took a moment to look around. In the other bunks, there were other little girls around the same age as me, all fast asleep, all of them alone. Like me. It only occurred to me then that I was an orphan. That I was sent to where all the other little boys and girls go when they don't have a mother and father to look after them.

My chest seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. My eyes felt hot and tears stung in my eyes. Swallowing back the lump in my throat, I laid down in the small bunk, and stared into the dark nothingness. I was alone. I had no one. I was an orphan.