Later, Seven's number began to appear on the rotation list for all three sections.
At first, it happened only occasionally.
Someone would be missing from a table in the handicraft room. The supervisor would glance across the rows of working children, and his gaze would naturally settle on Seven.
"Seven, come here for a moment."
The tone was ordinary.
Seven would stand up.
No one asked what he had been working on before.
No one asked whether he had already been sitting there for two hours straight.
He simply moved to another seat.
From the repetitive section to the precision section.
From the precision section to the outsourcing section.
Over time, he memorized the height of every table.
He remembered how long different glues took to dry.
He knew which batches of material had sharp edges that could cut fingers, and which sets of pigments would discolor if left exposed for too long.
No one had formally taught him these things.
He had simply done the work often enough.
When the outsourcing orders increased, the entire workspace would grow quiet.
Not because people stopped talking.
But because everyone began to move faster.
The scissors snapped more frequently.
Fabric brushed against tabletops in quick, repetitive strokes.
The sound of glue bottles being twisted open became noticeably more frequent.
Seven was usually placed wherever the rhythm was most likely to break.
Sometimes it was the finishing stage of decorative chains.
Sometimes it was the quality inspection table where a worker had fallen behind.
Sometimes it was a production line in the outsourcing section that had suddenly started to pile up.
He functioned like a wedge inserted into the mechanism.
Wherever something loosened, he was pushed in.
He never offered suggestions.
And he never needed anyone to explain the procedure.
If someone slowed down, he naturally filled the gap.
If a child beside him began staring blankly into space, he would quietly take over that batch of unfinished items.
Not because he wanted to help.
Simply because the process needed to continue.
Gradually, Seven learned to maintain a very narrow field of focus while working.
He looked only at the small space directly in front of him.
He concerned himself only with the materials currently in his hands.
If he lifted his head and looked around the entire room, it would feel too chaotic.
So he did not look.
Outsourced work was the most exhausting.
Because there was no upper limit to the quantity.
The supervisor would only say one thing:
"This batch must be finished today."
No explanation followed.
The first time Seven was assigned to continuously fill in for the outsourcing line was during a suffocating afternoon.
The window had been opened only slightly.
The air hung stagnant inside the room.
Sweat slid slowly down his back.
He changed sitting positions several times.
His knees began to grow numb.
He did not look at the time.
The clock on the wall had been blocked by stacked cartons.
Instead, he judged the approach of evening by the subtle change in the room's lighting.
Ros had been sent to the toddler activity area.
A volunteer was temporarily watching her.
Seven's task was simple.
Clear the backlog of finished goods.
That day he remained seated until his fingers no longer responded with full precision.
Before returning to the dormitory, he stood at the washing basin for a long time.
Water flowed between his fingers.
He lowered his head and looked at his reddened fingertips.
There was no real pain.
Only dullness.
After that, the rotations became more frequent.
Eventually, his number was placed on the flexible assignment list.
The list was posted inside the office.
Ordinary children could not see it.
But the nuns and supervisors knew.
It meant that whenever a problem appeared somewhere, he would be transferred there first.
He no longer had a fixed break schedule.
Sometimes others had already gone to eat while he was still finishing outsourcing work.
Sometimes when others took their midday rest, he was pulled into the precision section to assist with coloring tasks.
When he finally returned to the repetitive section, the table had already been filled with an entirely new batch of unfinished products.
He adapted to the rhythm.
Not because he liked it.
But because it was what was required.
Once, he sat in the quality inspection section for three straight hours.
His eyes ached from staring at subtle color differences.
His fingers began to stiffen.
The child beside him secretly stretched his arms.
A volunteer tapped the table in warning.
Seven did not move.
He only adjusted the way he held the inspection pen.
The supervisor noticed.
Not because Seven looked tired.
But because the defect rate for that batch had dropped to the lowest level.
That night, a new sheet appeared in the office.
Seven's number had been circled.
The nuns privately discussed his situation.
Someone suggested letting him rest for a few days.
But the moment the words were spoken, reality pressed down on them.
The outsourcing orders were still increasing.
Donation funds had not yet arrived.
And Seven was there.
Stable.
Quiet.
Like a spacer that never caused problems.
The discussion faded away.
During the second week, he was called into the office once.
The room was small.
The air carried the mixed smell of disinfectant and old paper.
Sitting inside was a man Seven had never seen before.
He was not a nun.
He wore a gray coat and held a clipboard.
He did not offer Seven a chair.
Instead, he asked a few casual questions.
"What time do you wake up every day?"
Seven answered.
"Do you find this work difficult?"
Seven thought for a moment.
"It's alright."
The man nodded and wrote something on the board.
"Did you learn these tasks somewhere before?"
Seven shook his head.
"Then who taught you?"
Seven remained silent for a second.
"No one."
The man looked up at him briefly.
He did not press further.
He continued writing.
After that day, Seven's workload did not decrease.
If anything, it became more concentrated.
He was assigned to several critical points in the workflow.
Not as a supervisor.
Not as an official manager.
Simply someone who ensured the process never stopped.
He began to anticipate where problems would appear.
It was not prediction.
More like his body reacted before his thoughts did.
When he saw certain batches of materials, he would instinctively switch to another station.
If the sound of a machine changed slightly, he would automatically move closer to check it.
If someone slowed down, he would quietly fill the space.
No one had asked him to behave that way.
But if he did not, the workflow would collapse.
And he had already grown accustomed to keeping things running.
When he returned to the dormitory at night, he was often the last one.
The lights were already off.
Children crowded onto old iron beds.
Their breathing overlapped in uneven rhythms.
Seven climbed carefully onto his own bunk.
The moment his body lay down, it became heavy.
Not pain.
A slowly accumulated fatigue.
He closed his eyes and fell asleep quickly.
The next day repeated itself.
The external visitors came again several times afterward.
They began taking photographs.
Pictures of the work tables.
Pictures of finished products.
Occasionally a camera swept across Seven's profile.
But the lens never lingered.
He was only part of the background.
What they cared about were productivity curves.
Not children.
Seven did not know which file his existence was being recorded in.
And he did not need to know.
Here, there was only one way to live.
Be assigned.
Then execute.
By the time he reached ten years old, he could switch fluently between all the procedures of the three sections.
A nun once remarked that he had grown taller.
A volunteer said he looked thinner.
The supervisor said:
"This kid is really useful."
That night, Seven sat alone at the warehouse entrance.
Wind drifted in through the narrow alley.
He hugged his knees and looked at the long shadows stretching beneath the distant streetlight.
Quietly, he reached a simple conclusion.
As long as he did not become a problem,
this place could continue operating.
And he—
was the part that did not fail.