CHAPTER 3

The night Liam was left at the orphanage became nothing more than a blurred memory—cold wind, darkness, and a hurried door slam. He survived because the caretaker found him at dawn, frowning as though the sight of a crying infant ruined her morning. He was fed, not out of kindness, but obligation. And as he grew into a small, fragile two-year-old boy, the orphanage became a world where hope flickered like a candle in a storm.

Liam learned early that there were rules—unspoken, cold rules only he seemed to suffer under. The caretakers scolded him for things he didn’t understand. If he stumbled, they said he was clumsy. If he cried, they called him troublesome. If he reached out for comfort, they pushed him away with irritated sighs. It wasn’t that they were kind to other children—no, the orphanage was a harsh place for everyone—but with Liam, there was something harsher, something colder. As though even his existence annoyed them.

Meal times were the worst. The caretakers often “forgot” to give him food or shoved the smallest portion toward him. When he reached for more, they would snap, “Greedy child! Be grateful we’re feeding you at all.” And when he quietly retreated, stomach twisting with hunger, the other children would snatch whatever little he had managed to protect.

The children at the orphanage learned quickly that Liam wouldn’t fight back. His gentle nature made him an easy target. They shoved him when he passed, tripped him during playtime, took toys out of his hands and laughed when he cried softly. Their taunts stung more than their hands.

“You’re weird,” one child would say.

“No wonder nobody wants you,” another sneered.

“You’re too quiet. No wonder even the caretakers don’t like you.”

Every insult carved a deeper fear into Liam’s heart—fear that perhaps they were right. Maybe he really was unwanted. Maybe he really didn’t deserve love.

Even at two, Liam had a softness that made him different. He never retaliated, never raised his voice. When the other children pushed him to the corner, he stayed there quietly. When they knocked him down, he stood back up without complaint. When they stole his food, he lowered his head and took the hunger silently.

And yet, deep inside, he held a tiny hope. A hope that one day, someone would see him and choose him. Someone would look into his eyes and not see a burden, but a child worthy of love.

Every night, curled on a thin mattress that scratched his skin, Liam whispered a small wish into the darkness: “Please… let someone come for me.”

He didn’t know who he hoped for. He just knew he didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t want to be invisible. He didn’t want the hollow ache in his chest to become permanent.

But the orphanage didn’t care about wishes.

When he reached for a caretaker’s hand, she shook him off.

When he tried to play with the others, they shoved him aside.

When he cried quietly in the corner, no one came.

Still, Liam remained gentle. Even when the world around him grew colder, he never let his tiny heart freeze with it. He watched other children laugh and wished he knew how that felt. He watched caretakers smile at newborns and wondered why that smile had never been meant for him.

He didn’t know that far away, in a palace bathed in gold, the mother who should’ve held him slept each night with an unexplainable ache in her chest.

He didn’t know that he was never meant to be an abandoned boy in a harsh orphanage.

All Liam knew—was that he was still waiting.

Still hoping.

Still believing that somewhere, someone might love him.

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