There was no more snow. It didn't vanish all at once, just faded day by day, slipping off the roof like melting wax, soaking into the garden paths until even the puddles disappeared. The stone no longer bit our feet when we stepped outside barefoot.
The breath no longer showed when we exhaled. The sky stayed open longer, letting the light stretch past supper. We were allowed outside again. The Matron gave no formal announcement—just unlocked the back door one morning and didn't stop the first child who wandered out.
After that, the others followed, like wind through an open window. Boots were pulled on too quickly, arms flung into sleeves, and the orphanage spilled into the thawed world like it had forgotten how to be indoors.
The garden bloomed. Not all at once, but in small, scattered offerings—tiny buds along the old fence, pale green shoots pushing through the dirt near the roots of the cherry tree, a handful of yellow flowers growing stubbornly near the laundry post. The air carried warmth again, light and dust and pollen. It made some of the children sneeze. It made most of them laugh.
The birds came back. Their sounds returned first—quick whistles from the trees, high chirps from the rooftops, the low murmur of wings cutting through morning silence. Then their shapes followed.
We saw them fluttering across the garden, darting above the garden bench, collecting twigs and hair from the brush pile out back. One built a nest in the gutter above the kitchen window. Sister Alira grumbled about the mess, but no one moved it.
I watched the garden fill again. With noise. With light. With life. And with every petal, with every breeze that passed through Evelune's hair, I felt something inside me settle. And something else begin to unravel. I didn't have much time left. I could feel it. Not because anyone told me. Not because I saw a carriage on the road or heard a knock on the door. Just because I knew.
There's a quiet in things before they end. A kind of stillness that hums beneath your ribs, behind your eyes. A waiting. It doesn't hurt. Not yet. But it lingers. I had felt it before, on the mornings when a child was taken away. The silence in the hallway. The suitcase packed too carefully. The last look someone gave to a door before they passed through it.
I felt that silence now. I stood on the porch tiles with Evelune beside me. She held her bunny in one hand, its ear newly stitched where the thread had frayed. Her other hand gripped the edge of my sleeve like it always had, thumb curling against the cloth, fingers resting over my wrist.
And the cat sat with us. He didn't come every day, but lately he had returned to the porch more often. He would slip through the garden gate like he belonged there, silent as shadow, and leap onto the porch railing with one smooth motion. He never made a sound. Just blinked those strange eyes—one gold, one green—and watched.
Today he sat right on the tile. Not curled. Not tense. Just there. Like he knew what we were feeling. Like he had come to say goodbye before the moment required it.
The sun slanted across the porch, stretching our shadows long and thin across the floorboards. The light caught the ribbon on my wrist—the one with my name—and made the silver thread shimmer. I touched it absently, my fingers tracing the seam. It had frayed a little over winter, but I hadn't let it unravel.
The wind was soft today. It carried the scent of the garden. Fresh soil, broken stems, the faint sweetness of the tree beginning to bloom. The cherry blossoms weren't fully open, not yet, but their promise filled the air like something sacred.
Evelune stepped forward, just enough to press her bare toes against the edge of the porch. Her head tilted slightly, watching the petals. A breeze lifted one off the branch and sent it spinning toward us. It landed at her feet. She didn't bend to touch it, just looked at it. I watched her eyes—calm, dark, unreadable.
She knew too. She always knew. The days of practice had faded now. She no longer needed my help to walk, to sit, to rise. She moved on her own, but always returned to me when she was done. Always came back. She'd begun sleeping slightly apart now—not in my arms, but against the curve of my side, her back resting against my ribs, her fingers reaching behind her to find my hand before falling asleep.
She was ready. But I wasn't. Not yet. I reached for her hand and she gave it without question. The cat blinked once and turned his gaze to the garden. Somewhere behind us, children shouted over a game. Someone was being chased. Someone was laughing too loudly. Sister Alira's voice echoed faintly, calling names for lunch. But none of that reached us here. Not fully.
The world beyond the porch was wide and bright and moving forward. But this moment stood still. I watched Evelune's face as the sun touched her cheek, as the breeze caught her hair and lifted it like thread. Her eyes were half-lidded, her lashes casting shadows over her skin. She looked like a memory, like something already gone but still standing there beside me.
I didn't speak. I didn't need to. We had never needed words. She turned to me once, the way she always did when I was lost in thought too long. Her eyes met mine. She didn't smile. But she didn't look away. I held her hand tighter. And we stood like that, the three of us—boy, girl, and cat—on the porch tiles, surrounded by sunlight and the sound of petals falling. Waiting.