The church orphanage stood at the far end of the old district.
It did not really look like a proper complex of buildings.
If anything, it resembled a patch of empty space the city had forgotten, something hastily filled in after everything else had already been built.
The outer walls were painted white.
Or at least, they had once been.
Up close, the paint had long since faded. Layers overlapped each other unevenly, one coat pressed over another. Older colors seeped through from beneath, while the newer layers appeared too thin to completely cover what came before.
The metal fence surrounding the property had rusted over time.
Yet it was always kept tightly shut.
Whenever the iron gate opened, it produced a long, dragging sound of metal scraping against metal.
There were no shops nearby.
Only a narrow gravel road stretched from the end of the street toward the orphanage grounds. The surface was uneven, scattered with small stones that shifted under weight.
Occasionally, a delivery truck passed through.
Its tires crushed the loose gravel, sending small stones skittering aside while a thin cloud of dust rose into the air.
The dust settled on the corners of the walls, on window ledges, on the edges of worn steps.
Then the wind carried it away again.
The place was quiet.
Not lively.
Not particularly desolate either.
It felt more like a buffer zone between the city and the poorer districts beyond it.
People did not intentionally pass through here.
And no one stayed very long.
The windows of the orphanage were set unusually high.
When children stood in the courtyard and looked up, they could only see a small square of sky.
Most of the children here had no names.
Children without names were given numbers instead.
Seven was one of them.
The number appeared everywhere.
Written on file cards.
Printed on the tiny tags sewn into blankets.
Listed along the left side of the duty roster.
Seven had understood very early that numbers existed only for the sake of record keeping.
The orphanage usually assigned older girls to take care of the younger children.
It was an unspoken rule.
Girls were considered more careful, more patient. And because of that, they were more easily expected to take on caregiving responsibilities.
The nuns never explained where the rule came from.
It existed the same way air existed.
Naturally.
Quietly.
But in Ros's year, there had been no suitable candidate.
Several girls who had originally been responsible for the youngest group had been transferred to the handicraft section.
External orders had suddenly increased.
The church needed more hands.
A nun stood in the office flipping through the name list.
Page after page turned with a dry rustling sound.
Her finger paused on one line.
Seven.
Eight years old.
In the evaluation column, a few simple words were written.
"Obedient."
"Stable efficiency."
"Does not cause trouble."
There were no additional notes.
No risk warnings.
So the rule was skipped.
Seven was assigned to look after Ros, who had only just learned how to walk.
There was no discussion.
Just a notice.
He was called away from the handicraft table.
The nun stood at the doorway and simply gestured toward him with her eyes.
Seven put down the piece of fabric he had not finished sewing and stood up.
He did not know what had happened.
But he was used to being called away like that.
Ros could barely speak at the time.
When she walked, she resembled a toy that had lost its balance.
Her legs were not strong yet. Each step felt tentative, as though she were testing the ground before trusting it.
She fell often.
When she fell, she did not cry immediately.
Usually she froze for a few seconds, staring blankly.
Then the crying would begin.
The first time Seven held her, his movements were stiff.
He did not know how to support a small child properly.
So he copied the posture he had once seen a nun demonstrate.
He held her awkwardly against his chest.
Ros's body was soft.
Her weight gathered in a small area against his chest.
Instinctively he tightened his arms, then immediately worried he might be squeezing too hard.
Ros wet her pants frequently.
Seven was taught how to change them.
The first time he washed them, he stood beside the sink for a long time.
He did not know whether he should scrub hard.
Or wash gently.
The pants were very small.
The fabric looked even thinner once soaked in cold water.
The water temperature was low enough to numb his fingertips.
He kept his hands submerged until the skin turned pale and the joints felt dull.
Only then did the smell finally fade.
Later, he became used to it.
No one praised him.
Because it was simply the work he had been assigned.
Ros did not know how to say thank you.
And the nuns never did.
As she grew slightly older, Seven had to complete his daily handicraft quota.
At the same time, he also had to accompany Ros for what the orphanage called "activity time."
The activity had no specific rules.
The only requirement was that toddlers should move around during the day instead of sitting still for too long.
Seven found an old leather ball somewhere.
Its surface had been worn down by time.
The original color was no longer clear.
He stood at the edge of the work area and tossed the ball forward gently.
Ros wobbled after it.
Picked it up.
Then threw it back.
Seven caught it.
And tossed it again.
This was not a designed game.
It simply prevented her from wandering into the tool area.
For many days in a row, the same rhythm repeated.
The ball rolled across the floor.
Footsteps echoed against the tiled ground.
Inside the handicraft room, scissors snapped open and shut.
Threads were pulled tight.
A faint smell of glue lingered in the air.
Numbers on the production sheet slowly increased line by line.
Seven counted his work while waiting for Ros to run back.
Sometimes she fell again.
When she fell, she did not cry immediately.
First she stared at the floor.
Then she lifted her head.
Whenever that happened, Seven would put down his work and walk over.
He helped her stand up.
Without speaking.
Then he threw the ball again.
Eventually Ros learned the rhythm.
She would look at Seven instinctively.
Waiting for him to move first.
Then she would chase after the ball.
There was no encouragement.
No praise.
Only repetition.
Later, Ros could no longer clearly remember what the orphanage looked like.
But she remembered one thing.
An older brother.
Someone who always threw the ball during short breaks from work.
She ran.
He caught.
And the world repeated itself like that.
The orphanage survived on scattered donations and small subsidies from the church.
The budget was always balanced at the edge of "just enough."
The staff was small.
Most of them were elderly nuns or volunteers.
They worked seriously, but their energy was limited.
When they walked, they sometimes reached out to steady themselves against the wall.
If they bent over for too long, they needed a moment to straighten their backs.
The children were required to participate in labor.
It was not considered punishment.
It was simply the default method of survival here.
Starting from the age of seven, every child received assigned tasks.
At first the work was simple.
Cleaning.
Carrying boxes.
Organizing storage rooms.
Once their fingers became nimble enough, they were allowed into the handicraft section.
The handicraft area was divided into three sections.
The first type was repetitive work.
Stringing decorations.
Folding paper.
Attaching small pieces.
Simple stitching.
The procedures were fixed.
No judgment required.
Just follow the template.
Most children worked here.
They sat in rows with their heads lowered.
Like a slow-moving assembly line.
Seven was first assigned to this section.
He was not particularly fast.
But he made almost no mistakes.
The second type was precision work.
Coloring.
Sorting.
Quality inspection.
This required the ability to notice small differences and maintain focus.
Usually only slightly older children were allowed to do this.
The first time Seven was transferred there happened because someone was absent.
The supervisor simply pointed at him casually.
That day, the rework rate dropped.
After that, he began to be called over repeatedly to "help."
The third type was outsourced work.
These were charity souvenirs the church produced for outside organizations.
Large quantities.
Tight deadlines.
The greatest pressure.
If even one person fell behind, the backlog appeared immediately.
Seven began to appear here frequently as well.
Not as a permanent position.
But as a substitute.
Wherever something went wrong, he was placed there.
He never complained.
And he never asked why.
Whatever task he was given, he simply did it.
He did not know whether this counted as ability.
He only felt that if he did not do it, things would become chaotic.
And he did not like chaos.