A woman named Mrs. Patterson greeted me at the front desk. She had kind eyes and the weary smile of someone who’d seen too many goodbyes.
“Feel free to look around,” she said gently. “Take your time. The children are in the common room.”
I walked slowly, my heart hammering. Kids were everywhere — building block towers, coloring at tables, and playing tag in small groups. Their laughter should’ve been carefree, but I could sense the weight they carried. Every smile hid a story.
Then I saw her.
A small girl sat alone by the window, curled into herself like she was trying to take up as little space as possible. She wore a knitted hat pulled low over her head, and her thin fingers wrapped around a popsicle.
She looked up, and our eyes met.
Hers were huge and brown, filled with a sadness that seemed far too old for her face. But when I smiled, she smiled back hesitantly.
I walked over and knelt beside her. “That’s really beautiful. What are you drawing?”
“A house,” she said softly.
“Is that your house?”
