Time passed quietly at Little Hands Orphanage.
The days all seemed the same to Thomas. Breakfast came, followed by chores or playtime. Naptime, then lunch, then more play, then bedtime. Each day blurred into the next. The other children grew taller. The caretakers grew more tired. Thomas… stayed the same, except he learned more every day.
By the time he could walk, he had already discovered a few important things about the world:
Crying loudly got attention.
Being too loud drew punishment.
Watching was safer than acting.
He walked carefully around the nursery, stepping over spilled milk and discarded toys. He observed the older children as they ran past, tripping over each other, shouting, laughing, or arguing over toys. He did not join in, but he learned which games were safe to watch, which children were trouble, and which adults would give him nothing if he needed help.
One day, two children argued over a wooden block. One shouted, "It's mine!" The other pulled it back. The first tripped over a bucket, landing on his face in the soft dirt outside.
Thomas watched quietly from the window ledge. He did not laugh, of course—but inside, he thought the scene was… remarkable. The caretaker chasing after them shouted a string of words Thomas would never repeat, waving her hands like she was conducting an orchestra gone mad.
Another day, a caretaker asked him to fetch a small bucket. Thomas walked over, picked it up, and waited patiently for instructions. The caretaker, distracted by another child, ran past, spilling the bucket herself. Thomas simply tilted his head and set it down. "Well," he thought, "at least I tried."
By the time he was small but speaking only a few words, Thomas had already developed a habit: to watch first, then act if necessary. It kept him safe and gave him the advantage of knowing what would happen next—something the other children never seemed to notice.
At night, when the children slept and the caretakers went home or to their offices, Thomas would lie awake, staring at the dark ceiling. He had no fear. He had no curiosity either. He simply watched. He observed how the shadows moved, how the wind pressed against the windows, how the other children stirred in their sleep.
And somewhere, beyond the walls, a shadow waited patiently. Watching.
By the time Thomas was able to talk in small, careful words, he had already learned more than most of the children twice his age.
The orphanage had rules, though no one seemed to remember all of them.
"Don't run in the hallways!" the caretaker shouted. Five seconds later, a child ran past anyway, knocking over a basket of toys.
"Sit still during lunch!" another screamed. Minutes later, someone threw a piece of bread at the wall, aiming for a hole that had been there since forever.
Thomas observed. He noted which rules mattered and which were ignored. He copied the ones that kept him out of trouble. He ignored the ones that didn't.
One morning, a caretaker insisted that everyone pick up their shoes before breakfast. Thomas bent carefully to line his small shoes neatly. Across the room, a boy tiptoed behind him, thinking he could hide one shoe under the table. Predictably, it slipped, slid across the floor, and hit another child squarely in the back. The caretaker shouted. The boy denied it. The other child blamed him. Thomas tilted his head, silently amused.
Sometimes the adults themselves were funny without realizing it. One day, two caretakers argued about whether the milk was too warm or too cold. The argument lasted long enough for three children to dump it entirely onto the floor. By the time the adults noticed, Thomas had quietly walked away with a clean cloth, already folding it neatly for the next spill.
He didn't speak much, but inside, Thomas found amusement everywhere. People tried hard. People failed harder. And every failure was a story to watch, analyze, and remember.
He learned who yelled the most, who moved the slowest, and which children were likely to start a fight. He learned which toys caused arguments and which ones could be ignored entirely. He learned that keeping your head down and your eyes open was often better than joining in.
Thomas had learned most of the rules, but he hadn't yet learned how to deal with other children's curiosity.
One afternoon, during playtime, a few older children approached his crib. They had nothing to do and boredom made them dangerous.
"Hey, quiet one," a boy said, leaning over the crib. "Why don't you talk?"
Thomas tilted his head. He had learned that talking only when necessary kept trouble away. He did not answer.
"Aw, look at him!" a girl said. "He's pretending we don't exist!"
"Maybe he thinks he's better than us," another added.
Thomas watched them. He didn't smile, didn't cry, didn't flinch. He only observed.
The boy poked at his blanket. "You're boring."
Thomas blinked slowly.
"Boring!" the boy repeated, louder this time.
Thomas said nothing.
"Maybe he's dumb," the girl whispered, leaning closer.
That earned her a shove from another child who was trying to see the action. The shover tripped over his own foot and landed on the floor with a loud thump. Thomas's small eyes followed every movement, noting exactly how chaos formed.
The boy on the crib looked frustrated. "I can't even make him mad!" he complained.
"He doesn't care," the girl said. "Weird baby."
Humor crept in naturally. The children argued over who could get Thomas to react first, tripping over toys, stepping on each other's feet, and yelling at small accidents. Thomas watched everything, silent, calculating.
Finally, one boy tried to grab Thomas's small hand. Thomas recoiled slightly—not from fear, just instinct. The boy lost balance and landed against the corner of a crib. He yelped.
"See? He's dangerous!" the girl announced, laughing despite herself.
The caretakers arrived just in time. They scolded the children for causing trouble. Thomas was untouched, untouched by anger or attention. He simply went back to observing the room, as if nothing had happened.
The nursery had finally settled.
The other children slept in uneven rows of cribs, some snoring softly, some murmuring in their dreams. Caretakers had gone home, leaving the lamps dimmed and the old building quiet, except for the occasional creak of the floor or the rustle of blankets.
Thomas lay in his crib, wide-eyed. His small fists rested against the blanket as he replayed the day in his mind—the pushes, the spills, the laughter, the shouting. He had stayed out of trouble, avoided being grabbed, and silently noted which children caused chaos and which stayed in their corner.
Suddenly, a small accident occurred.
A child leaned too far over the railing of a crib nearby and toppled sideways. Thomas instinctively shifted toward the movement, as if to help—but before he could do anything, a faint shadow passed over the child. Something—someone—pushed lightly from behind, steadying the crib just in time.
The child's fall stopped. He blinked, confused, and the other children carried on, oblivious.
Thomas watched, calm, and realized nothing had touched him. Whatever had acted, had only acted where it was needed. He did not know who or what it was. He did not think about it too much. It was simply… protection.
Outside, the faint whisper of wind moved through the trees. Somewhere beyond the orphanage walls, the shadow lingered. Not moving closer, not interfering more than necessary. Just watching.
The nursery was calm again. A floorboard creaked in the distance. A baby muttered in its sleep. A caretaker's forgotten slipper squeaked in the hall.
Thomas's eyes slowly closed, but his small hands remained lightly clenched.
The shadow waited outside, patient and silent.
And for that night, that was enough.