I couldn't stop thinking about the orphanage.
Not the building itself, but the way it had smelled in the mornings. Burnt toast and hand soap. The way Ms. Callum used to tuck one blanket corner extra-tight at night. The sound of my own laughter, back when I hadn’t yet realized I was something less than wolf. Something that would always make me second guess how I took up space.
By noon, I had floated the idea. “I want to visit the orphanage.”
Richard didn’t hesitate. “Then we will.”
The car ride was longer than I remembered, the road winding past villages I hadn’t thought of in years. As we neared, I saw the familiar stoop, still cracked in the corner from when I had tripped racing inside on my ninth birthday.
Children were already gathered near the windows. They recognized me. Or maybe
