"𝕾𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖆𝖉𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖔𝖚𝖑"

II

Morana's point of view:

The gate swung open with a groan, and I stepped into the familiar chaos of St. Claire's courtyard. The sun was sinking lower in the sky, casting everything in a warm, golden light that almost made the orphanage's chipped brick walls and overgrown weeds look charming. Almost.

The kids were everywhere. Some were playing soccer with a deflated ball; others were screaming over a game of tag that had dissolved into shoving matches. Normal day. Except it wasn't. I could feel it in the air, heavier than the usual noise. Something was off.

Lola, my furry, four-legged shadow, padded silently beside me, her tail flicking as she observed the commotion with her usual air of disdain.

I wanted to go straight to my room, maybe bury myself under a blanket and pretend the world didn't exist, but before I could make it halfway across the courtyard, Sister Clarisse's voice cut through the chaos.

"Morana!"

I froze mid-step, already bracing myself. That tone meant business. And not the kind I could weasel my way out of.

"Coming," I called, sighing as I turned toward the office. Lola followed, her paws silent against the cobblestones, as if even she knew this wasn't going to be good.

When I walked into Sister Clarisse's office, the tension in the air hit me like a freight train. She was sitting behind her desk, clipboard in hand, looking more frazzled than usual. Her graying hair was coming loose from its bun, and her glasses sat crooked on her nose.

"Sit," she said, gesturing to the chair in front of her.

"I'll stand," I replied, crossing my arms.

"Sit," she repeated, her tone leaving no room for argument.

I dropped into the chair with a dramatic sigh, slumping so far down that I might as well have been lying on the floor. Lola hopped onto my lap, her warmth grounding me despite the unease bubbling in my stomach.

Sister Clarisse set the clipboard aside, her fingers steepled as she studied me. I hated when she did that—like she was trying to read my mind and was seconds away from pointing out something I didn't want to admit.

"You've probably noticed things have been... different around here lately," she began.

"You mean the way you've been pacing around like someone's about to shut this place down?" I shot back, my tone sharper than I intended.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn't deny it. Instead, she let out a long sigh, and my stomach twisted.

"Morana," she said slowly, "you've been here a long time. Longer than most."

I stiffened, my defenses shooting up like a fortress. "Yeah, because I'm such a joy to have around."

"This isn't about that," she said, her voice softer now. "You're eighteen. You're aging out of the system, and as much as we care about you, St. Claire's can't host you anymore."

Her words hit like a punch to the gut, but I forced myself to stay still, to keep my face blank. "So, what, you're kicking me out? Throwing me onto the street? Should I start practicing my cardboard sign skills now?"

"No one's throwing you anywhere," she said firmly. "We've found a place for you—and a few of the older kids. A new orphanage in Italy. They specialize in transitional care for teens like you, helping you prepare for independence."

I blinked, my mind struggling to catch up. Italy? A whole new country?

"You're joking," I said, my voice flat.

"I'm not," she replied. "The arrangements have already been made. You'll be leaving at the end of the week."

Lola shifted in my lap, her claws lightly kneading my thigh. It was the only thing keeping me from snapping.

"So that's it?" I said, my voice rising. "You're just... shipping me off because I'm inconvenient?"

"Morana, that's not—"

"Don't," I interrupted, standing abruptly. "Don't try to dress it up. You need to make room for the next wave of kids, and I'm too old to be worth the trouble. I get it."

Her face softened, but I couldn't stand to look at her anymore. I turned on my heel, storming out before she could say anything else.

~~~~~~~~

I made it to my room, slamming the door behind me. The familiar clutter of my books, my art supplies, and Lola's various cat toys greeted me, but it didn't feel comforting. It felt like it was all mocking me.

Italy. A whole other country. With strangers. I didn't even know the language, aside from the words I'd picked up from watching cooking shows.

I flopped onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling as my mind churned.

What if the new orphanage was worse? What if the kids hated me? What if the staff treated me like some kind of charity project, a broken thing they were trying to fix?

But what if it wasn't?

The thought came unbidden, slipping through the cracks of my frustration. What if this was my chance to escape? To finally leave behind the suffocating routines of doctor visits and pitying glances?

I glanced down at Lola, who was curled up beside me, her eyes half-closed.

"What do you think?" I asked her. "Italy. Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen, right?"

She purred softly, clearly unbothered by the upheaval.

"Of course you're fine with it," I muttered. "You'll just nap through the whole thing."

But my mind kept circling back to that annoying little flicker of hope. Maybe this was a chance. A terrifying, overwhelming chance, but a chance all the same.

"Fine," I said aloud, running a hand through my hair. "Let's see what Italy's got."

Lola stretched, her tail flicking as if to say, About time you caught up.

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Hoped you enjoyed this chapter and thank you for joining Morana on this journey. Your support means a lot.
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Sending love,

-M