I was seven years old when he was welcomed into the orphanage.
I couldn't remember what day that was for the life of me, but I did remember the old smell of he pages of the storybook I was holding, the coziness of the small bed, and how I tried to wrap a blanket around myself to keep myself from the cold.
The door opened, and the owner of the orphanage, Mama Margarita, came in. She then sat on the bed. "Francesca, dear, come with me," she said.
My eyes looked curiously at her, trying to figure out what was happening. She only chuckled.
"There's someone I'd like you to meet! I believe the others have already met him, but I think you two might become great friends, too."
I didn't really find anything to be wrong with staying silent. I did play with the other kids sometimes, and I was usually just very quiet, but they didn't mind, and I didn't mind, either. All we really wanted was someone to be with.
Mama Margarita led me out and into the living room, and there I saw my friends, my family at this point, surrounding a boy with blonde hair. Possibly the most striking thing about him were his eyes. The others seemed to be enjoying his presence, telling jokes and stories here and there, making him feel at home, and he was just laughing freely.
I didn't really believe that, though. Something about him just made me think that way. Maybe it was just me and how I often compared storybook characters with real ones, how I tried to see if the fairytale standard of happiness was the same as in real life, or maybe something was really off about him.
His gaze fell onto mine, and we stared at each other for a few moments.
At that moment, thoughts about his sincerity went away.
I just wished he felt at home.
