On a silent, dark night, a hooded man appeared before the gates of a small orphanage. In his arms, he carried a basket, and inside it lay a baby.
Without saying a single word, he left the basket at the door and walked away. The sound of the baby's cries immediately shattered the silence of the night, growing louder as the hooded figure disappeared into the fog.
The orphanage door slowly opened, and a sister stepped outside, startled by the noise. When she saw the basket, she frowned.
—How cruel people can be —she murmured—. But perhaps this was the best option.
She carefully picked up the baby and entered the building. Inside, the orphanage's caretaker was waiting: an elderly Father with a calm yet weary expression.
—What are you holding in your arms? —he asked.
—A baby, Father. He was left at the door —the sister replied.
They placed him on a table to examine him more closely. Inside the basket, there was a wrinkled piece of paper with a single name written on it:
Kurai.
—Perhaps that's his name —said the Father.
—It seems so —the sister replied.
But then, the Father noticed something else. He leaned closer and gently parted the baby's hair. Two small horns timidly protruded from his head. His expression twisted into one of disgust.
—He has horns —he said, a mix of shock and revulsion in his voice.
The sister widened her eyes in surprise.
—That's incredible, Father. They say the only ones born with horns are from the dragon race. Though it's very rare to see them outside their kingdom —she exclaimed.
The Father clenched his teeth in anger.
—This child looks like a demon. His appearance unsettles me.
—But Father, he's just a defenseless baby —she replied firmly—. Please allow me to take care of him.
Still displeased, the Father finally nodded.
—Do as you wish. But be mindful of your illness.
She smiled gently.
—Don't worry. I will take care of him.
And so, five years passed.
Kurai learned to speak, walk, run, and smile—always accompanied by the sister. He walked through the orphanage halls holding her hand, watching the other children play. Though he wanted to join them, he didn't, as he was a bit shy. The sister noticed and whispered to him:
—Don't you want to go play with the others?
Kurai quickly shook his head, but she insisted that he go and play. With his head lowered, he went—and it turned out to be the opposite of what he feared. He looked back at her and said with a bright smile:
—You're right, Sister. The children at the orphanage are very kind.
She looked at him and smiled softly. From a window in another room, the Father watched the children playing in the garden, his gaze filled with complete disgust toward the small Kurai.
One day, like many others, the sister fell ill and remained bedridden. Kurai couldn't understand how the woman who had protected him since his first day now spent her days in a room barely touched by sunlight. Perhaps he was too young to understand, but what Kurai did know was that he hated seeing the sister grow weaker with each passing day.
The days were hard. There were days when Kurai stayed in the sister's room all day, talking to her, but she didn't like it. She would always tell him in a gentle voice:
—Although your visits fill me with joy, I don't want you to spend all day here. Go to the garden and enjoy playing with the other children.
—Sister, I'll stay here until you get better.
—Alright, Kurai, but you must also go out and play.
Unable to argue, he replied with a smile:
—I will, Sister.
But as the days passed, she only grew worse. And with nothing left to be done, the day of her departure arrived. In her room, where the light seemed to shine brighter than anywhere else, the Father and Kurai were present. The sister, breathing slowly, looked at the Father.
—I entrust Kurai to you —she whispered.
The Father nodded and remained silent.
Then she looked at Kurai, who was tightly holding her hand.
—Take good care of yourself. I will always be watching over you —were the last words she managed to say.
Kurai, his eyes filled with tears he couldn't yet understand, replied:
—I will, Sister.
Minutes later, they left the room, leaving behind the motionless body of the woman who had been his only family.
The Father glanced at Kurai for a moment, expressionless, then simply turned around and walked away without saying a word.
Kurai stood there, unmoving.
Not understanding the emptiness in his chest.
Was it sadness?
Or simply… nothing?