I was twelve the day I first met Eleri. By then, I'd already spent five years at the orphanage—five long years since my parents died. Five years since I last heard their voices, saw their faces, or felt the warmth of their embrace. Losing them had shattered my world in ways I couldn't understand at the time. The Kingdom of Orphic was supposed to be our fresh start, a new beginning in a place where the icy winters wrapped everything in a quiet stillness. But I never imagined I'd be starting over without them.

It happened when I was seven. A car accident on one of the frozen roads just outside the capital. They died instantly, or at least that's what they told me. I wasn't sure if they said it to make me feel better or because it was true. Either way, it didn't change the outcome. Just like that, I became an orphan in a foreign place, a place where I barely spoke the language and the customs were still strange to me. But here… it wasn't as bad as I expected.

In the United States, the foster care system had a reputation—a dark one. Stories of abusive homes, overcrowded shelters, and children who were lost long before they could find their way. I'd heard enough to know how easily it could break someone. The orphanages here, though, were different. There was warmth here. Care. The people who ran them wanted us to thrive, even if we didn't have families of our own.

The orphanage I lived in was more like a large, old house—full of creaky wooden floors and drafty windows that let the cold sneak in during the long winters. But honestly, it was the best place I could have hoped for. We had rules, yes, but the caretakers were kind, and they encouraged us to learn, create, and dream. It wasn't luxurious, but it was enough. I had my own room, which was a luxury itself, with a small window that overlooked the city. From my vantage point, I could see the snow-covered streets below, the flickering lights of the marketplace, and beyond that, the jagged peaks of the mountain range that seemed to cradle the kingdom in its icy grip. Even though the cold was relentless, the room felt safe. And sometimes, safety is all you can ask for.

I didn't look like most of the other kids here. My skin was a deep, warm brown, a stark contrast to the pale complexions around me. My hair, a mass of tight curls, never quite stayed tamed, no matter how much I tried. I was tall for my age, awkwardly so, with limbs that felt too long for my body. But more than that, I was quiet. Too quiet, perhaps. I was used to being alone, used to keeping to myself. My voice had grown soft from years of holding back, and even now, I found it hard to raise it above a whisper.

And then Eleri came.

She arrived at the orphanage a few days after her eleventh birthday, with short, choppy black hair and these big, gray eyes that seemed to take in everything around her. There was something about the way she watched the world that unsettled me, like she was constantly assessing, constantly looking for something—or someone. From the moment she stepped through the door, she clung to me. It was as if she'd decided, in that instant, that I was the one she needed. Like a lost puppy, following at my heels, never straying too far.

At first, I didn't mind. It was nice, in a way, to have someone gravitate toward me, someone who saw me. But Eleri was… intense. She never wanted to leave my side, always standing just a little too close, always asking if I needed anything, always watching. It was endearing at first, then exhausting.

One morning, while I sat at my desk trying to read, I could feel her eyes on me again. Hovering. Waiting.

I was twelve when I first met Eleri, and by then, the orphanage had been my home for five long years. Five years since my parents died, and the life I knew dissolved into a blur of grief and confusion. The Kingdom of Orphic was supposed to be our fresh start—a place where the winters froze everything in stillness, giving us the chance to build something new. But I never expected to begin again without them.

It happened when I was seven, on a cold, icy day. The roads outside the capital had frozen over, and my parents' car skidded out of control. They died instantly, or at least that's what they told me. I never knew if they said it to soften the blow or if it was the truth. Either way, it didn't matter. One moment I had a family, and the next, I was alone. The memories of them—my mother's laugh, the warmth of my father's arms around me—faded a little more with each passing day. It left a hole inside me that I didn't know how to fill.

The orphanage wasn't as terrible as I thought it might be. I'd heard stories about the foster care system back in the United States—horror stories of kids shuffled between abusive homes, forgotten in overcrowded shelters. But here, things were different. The orphanages in the kingdom were run by people who actually cared, who wanted to see us thrive, even if we didn't have families of our own.

My orphanage was a large, old house with creaky floors and windows that rattled in the wind, but it was warm enough. I had my own small room with a window that overlooked the snow-dusted streets below and the sharp, white peaks of the mountain range beyond. From that little perch, I watched life move on without me, feeling like an outsider peering in. But in my room, at least, I could hide from the world and all the questions it kept throwing my way.

I was different from most of the other kids. My skin was a deep, warm brown that stood out against their pale faces, and my hair, a mess of tight curls, refused to lie flat no matter what I did. I didn't blend in, not physically and not emotionally. I kept to myself, partly because I'd forgotten how to talk to people after everything that had happened. I learned early on how to survive alone, how to stay quiet and unnoticed. I thought maybe that was how my life would be forever—quiet, isolated, just trying to get through each day.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Then, Eleri came along.

She showed up at the orphanage a few days after her eleventh birthday, with short, choppy black hair and these piercing gray eyes that seemed to look right through you. She didn't hesitate, didn't wait for an invitation—she just attached herself to me. From the moment she arrived, it was like we were a set, two pieces of a puzzle that fit together without any explanation. Wherever I went, Eleri was there, trailing after me, her presence constant and undeniable.

At first, I didn't mind. It was nice to have someone, even if she was always there, like a shadow. Eleri made it impossible to feel lonely, and sometimes, I wondered if that's why she clung to me—because she was just as scared of being alone as I was. We were inseparable, even when it felt like maybe we were too close. She had a way of always knowing where I was, always making sure we sat together during meals, played the same games, and even studied side by side in the library. It was a little annoying sometimes, but in a weird way, comforting too.

Eleri wasn't like anyone I'd ever known. She didn't talk much about her past—she never said why she was here or what had happened to her family. But she always wanted to know about me. "What was it like before?" she'd ask, her big eyes watching me like my answers held all the secrets she needed. And every time, I'd tell her what little I could remember.

I'd tell her about my parents—the way my mom used to hum while she cooked or the way my dad's eyes lit up when he talked about moving to Orphic. Eleri listened to everything, soaking it in like it was the most important story in the world. She never asked for details, never pushed me to say more than I wanted to. She just listened. And somehow, that made it easier to talk about them.

We'd spend hours together, sitting by the window in my room, watching the snow fall, lost in our own thoughts. Eleri was always close, always right there. Sometimes it felt like I couldn't breathe without her noticing, without her asking if I was okay. I'd get frustrated sometimes—wanting just a little space—but I couldn't bring myself to push her away. Eleri had this way of making you feel like you were the only person in the world who mattered to her, and there was something about that I couldn't turn my back on. Maybe it was because I needed it too.

As the years passed, Eleri became a fixture in my life. We were like sisters, bound together by something I couldn't explain. There were times when her constant presence felt suffocating, but I also couldn't imagine my days without her by my side. It was like we had created our own world within the orphanage, a place where it was just the two of us against everything else.

One afternoon, while we were sitting in my room, Eleri asked me a question that had been hanging in the air between us for a while. "Do you think we'll ever leave here?"

I glanced over at her, surprised by the question. She was lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling like she was waiting for it to give her answers. "I don't know," I said honestly. "I mean, I hope so. But... it's not so bad here, right?"

Eleri turned her head to look at me, her eyes narrowing like she was trying to read my mind. "No, it's not bad. As long as we stay together."

That was Eleri—always focused on us, on the idea that we were a team, that no matter what, we had each other. It was comforting, in a way, even if sometimes it felt like she needed me more than I needed her. But maybe that's why we worked. We balanced each other, filled in the gaps where the other one fell short.

And as much as I longed for a future beyond the orphanage, one where I could find my own path, I knew that wherever I went, Eleri would be there too. She was a part of me now, whether I liked it or not.

"Hey, Eleri," I said, glancing up. "You don't have to stick by me all the time, you know. There are other kids here too."

She blinked, as if surprised I'd noticed her presence, then offered me a shy smile. "I know. But I like being with you. You're… different."

I raised an eyebrow. "Different how?"

She shrugged, but her eyes never left mine. "You're quiet. But not in a bad way. You're calm. Safe."

The word hit me in a way I didn't expect. No one had ever called me 'safe' before. I wasn't sure how to respond to that. After all, I didn't feel safe, not really. I was just surviving.

"Well," I murmured, unsure of what else to say, "you can stay, but maybe give me some space?"

"Okay," she said quickly, though she barely moved an inch.

I sighed. Eleri was sweet, but there was something about her that made me uneasy. She had a way of latching onto me, showing up at my door every morning, waiting for me after meals, always making sure she was sitting next to me during every activity. The other kids teased her sometimes, but she didn't seem to care. It was like her entire world revolved around me, and I didn't know how to feel about that.

Most days, I kept to myself. The orphanage was full of noise—laughter, chatter, and the occasional argument—but I preferred the quiet. I spent a lot of time thinking, sorting through my thoughts. Lately, those thoughts had been drifting more and more toward the Sirens.

The Sirens were a mystery, a legend in our kingdom. There were stories about them—whispers of creatures who lived near the Antarctic Ocean, who could control the tides and swim through the icy waters as if they belonged there. Some said they were protectors of the kingdom, while others believed they were dangerous, not human anymore. I didn't know what to believe, but the idea fascinated me. What would it be like to live as a Siren, to be feared, admired, powerful? To not feel the cold that seemed to seep into my bones every winter?

But that was a far-off thought, something I didn't dwell on for too long. I had more immediate concerns. Like Eleri, who was sitting next to me on the couch, staring at me with those wide, unreadable eyes again.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice soft but piercing in the quiet of the room.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I said, giving her a small smile. "Just thinking."

"About what?" she pressed.

I hesitated. "The future, I guess."

Her eyes lit up with curiosity. "Do you think we'll stay here forever?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "Maybe. It's not a bad place."

She nodded, her expression turning thoughtful. "No, it's not bad. As long as we stay together."

And there it was again—her need to be close to me, to make sure we were inseparable. It made me uncomfortable, but at the same time, I couldn't help but feel responsible for her. Maybe, just maybe, I was the one thing she could count on. And maybe that's why I didn't push her away.