The couple's car hummed quietly as it cruised along the winding coastal road, framed by towering trees and glimpses of the sea beyond. The man behind the wheel, his dark brown hair catching glints of the afternoon sun, kept his eyes on the road, though there was a faint tension in his grip. His wife, sitting beside him, shifted in her seat, her excitement barely contained. The sunlight filtered through her blonde hair, casting a soft glow around her as she gestured animatedly, her voice full of anticipation.

"You know, this feels right," she said, her tone warm but tinged with nervous energy. "I've been thinking about this day for weeks. Can you believe it? We might actually be parents soon."

Her husband glanced at her, his expression softening as he took in her excitement. He reached over and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "I know. It's still hard to wrap my head around. But it's the best decision we could've made. You've been through enough... and this, well, this feels like a new beginning."

For a moment, her smile faltered as painful memories resurfaced, but she quickly shook them off. "Yes… you're right. This time, there's no risk. No fear of loss. Just… hope."

A comfortable silence settled between them, the kind that comes from years of shared experiences—both the joyful and the heartbreaking. He gave her hand another squeeze, his thumb gently tracing circles over her skin. "And a lot of love," he said softly. "That's what matters. We're going to give this child everything."

Everything. It was a word that hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. They had everything—wealth, security, a beautiful home—but the one thing they had longed for most, a child, had always felt just out of reach. Their beautiful house on the Melemele island was a place of beauty and comfort, with sprawling gardens and open space, perfect for a child to grow up in. But it had also been a place where the shadows of their past losses lingered, reminders of the children they had never had.

She looked out the window, watching the landscape blur by as her thoughts wandered. "Do you think they'll like us?" she asked, her voice suddenly quieter, more uncertain.

"Of course they will," he replied with a soft chuckle. "How could they not? You're amazing. And we've waited so long for this. We're ready."

Her laugh was soft, almost hesitant. "I just… I just want everything to be perfect, you know. After everything we've been through, I want to give this child a life full of love, free of pain or fear."

In the backseat, their Eevee lifted its head, its large ears twitching as if it had been listening to the conversation. The little Pokémon had been with them for years, a comforting presence through their darkest days. Now, it sat alert, sensing the excitement in the air, its tail wagging softly as it chirped in agreement, its bright eyes gleaming with enthusiasm.

"It's going to be perfect," he reassured her, his voice steady and confident. "We're more than ready for this. We've been waiting long enough, and now… it's time."

As they approached Aether House, the white building came into view, its façade standing out against the greenery. The sight of it brought a moment of silence to the car, both of them absorbing the significance of what lay ahead. This was it—the beginning of a new chapter. A future filled with the kind of possibilities they had once thought were out of reach.

The car slowed to a stop in front of the orphanage, the gentle hum of the engine fading as he turned off the ignition. He turned to her, offering a reassuring smile. "Ready?"

She nodded, though her heart raced with nervous anticipation. "Ready."

- Eevey!

Their Eevee, unable to contain its excitement, bounded out of the car as soon as the door opened, its little paws hitting the ground with a soft thud. The couple followed, stepping out into the afternoon light as they approached the entrance of Aether House, their footsteps light but purposeful. This was where their dreams of becoming parents would finally come true.

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***

Inside the serene grounds of Aether House, The playground buzzed with life. Children, their laughter echoing in the warm afternoon air, ran between the trees and along the worn pathways. Some played tag, while others sat in the grass with their Pokémon, engaged in playful battles. The familiar hum of activity filled the space, giving it an energy that felt both chaotic and joyful.

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Yet, amidst the whirl of life, a single child of maybe four or five years old, sat apart.

Beneath the sprawling branches of a tree, the boy lay motionless, his dark blue and white hair creating a sharp contrast against the green grass.

The director, dressed in her gray formal suit, white shirt neatly pressed beneath it, stood by the large window of her office, gazing out over the playground. Her glasses glinted in the afternoon light as she watched the boy who lay under the shade of a sprawling tree. Her gaze mixed with concern and sadness.

While the other children were lively, running around with their Pokémon, the boy was eerily still, his gaze blankly fixed upward, lost in thought as he stared at the leaves swaying above him.

'sigh*'

She sighed softly, her concern for him deepening with every passing day. He had been here for two months now, and in all that time, he had barely interacted with the other children or their Pokémon. He had remained distant, detached. The boy spoke little, interacted even less, and the other children seemed to sense his aloofness, leaving him to his own devices. His silence was as much a part of him as the shadows that seemed to follow wherever he went.

Her thoughts drifted back to the day he had arrived—brought in by Officer Jenny. She remembered the officer's troubled expression as she explained the circumstances.

The boy had been found alone at the seaside, unconscious beside a large piece of driftwood, with the sign of a single, heavy, and old injury on his left cheek and no clues as to who he was or where he came from. Physically, he was perfectly healthy, as the medical report had confirmed, but emotionally… that was another story entirely.

Her thoughts flicked back to Officer Jenny's words: "He's not deaf or mute," Officer Jenny had said with a frustrated frown. "But no matter how many times we asked, he wouldn't tell us a thing about himself, about anything."

Since that day, the boy had remained an enigma. The director had hoped that, over time, Aether House might coax the boy out of this protective shell. But even the headmaster, an Oranguru, named by the children, with his unparalleled wisdom and insight, had struggled to understand him. The child was not mute, nor was he frightened in any typical sense.

It wasn't just his silence that troubled them, though. It was the look in his eyes—cold, distant, and filled with something far too dark for a child his age. The headmaster had tried to delve into the boy's mind with his psychic powers, hoping to uncover something that might explain his behavior.

But what they had uncovered instead was something far more... troubling

The headmaster had described it as a deep, smoldering anger. A hatred that seemed far too intense for a child his age. What made it even more unsettling was that the boy seemed fully aware of this anger. He controlled it, bottled it up inside, but it was there, lurking beneath the surface.

The director frowned as she continued to watch the little boy continued to stare blankly at the sky, the feeling of unease growing inside her. What could have happened to him? What could have caused so much pain in someone so young? And how could they help him heal when he refused to let anyone in?

The director felt the weight of that darkness lingering around him. The other children, so full of life, played freely with their Pokémon, laughing and competing in carefree battles. But the boy? He refused to engage. He was a ghost among them, silent, detached, the resentment in his eyes unspoken but ever-present.

Then, unexpectedly, something had changed. In the first few weeks, he hadn't spoken a word in class or during meals, only staring, ever watchful. But after a certain point, after weeks of silence, the boy had begun answering questions in class. His voice, when he spoke, was calm and precise, often startling the teachers who had grown used to his silence.

Even more surprising was his aptitude for learning—particularly in mathematics and Pokémon studies. He excelled where others struggled, solving complex equations with ease and showing a deep understanding of Pokémon behavior, a level of understanding far beyond his peers. Subjects that stumped some of the brightest children—came naturally to him. His intellect was startling, a quiet brilliance that set him apart even more.

His teachers were both surprised and impressed by his sudden progress, but the director couldn't shake the sense that something wasn't quite right.

At first, the director had been relieved. Perhaps this was a sign of progress. But then one day, the headmaster's words echoed in her mind.

"Something has changed," Oranguru had said, his tone grave. "His anger… it has a direction now. He's no longer lost in it. He's controlling it. And that, in itself, is dangerous."

The boy's sudden interest in academics hadn't been born out of curiosity, a desire to learn, or a result of healing, the director feared. It was something else—something darker. His intelligence, though remarkable, seemed more like a tool he was sharpening, something he could wield when the time came. The director couldn't shake the feeling that, despite his young age, he was planning something.

How could a child so young wield such control over something so destructive? The thought haunted her as she continued to watch him from the window, still lost in his thoughts beneath that tree.

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Her thoughts turned to the couple, who were scheduled to visit the orphanage today, Mr. And Mrs. Veynor.

A lovely and pitiful couple, they had endured their own heartbreak, having lost their unborn child during pregnancy. Their decision to adopt came from a place of deep personal pain, but also a hope—an earnest desire to heal—both themselves and the child they would welcome into their home. To find hope again through the act of giving a child a home.

The director hoped, with all her heart, that the Veynors might choose this boy, since the little boy is a prodigy. There was something in him, beyond the anger and the silence, that called out for understanding, for love. Perhaps the Veynors' compassion, their deep personal connection to loss, might be the very thing that could reach him. If anyone could break through the emotional walls he had built around himself, maybe it was them.

After hearing the boy's silence day after day, they decided to name him Kiyoshi—meaning "quiet." It seemed fitting, though the director wished it hadn't been so accurate.

But then, her fears surfaced again. What if Kiyoshi's scars were too deep? What if the love and security they offered weren't enough to quell the darkness inside him? She imagined the boy, still silent and withdrawn, even in a new home, his anger festering further.

She clung to hope, though. She had to. She imagined the possibility—no matter how slim—of seeing Kiyoshi smile, even if just once. Of seeing him engage with the world beyond his own thoughts, of watching him laugh or speak freely, unburdened by whatever haunted him. If anyone deserved that chance, it was him.

The director glanced back at the paperwork on her desk, her pen resting idly on the edge of the adoption files. The Veynors were due to arrive soon. As she glanced once more toward Kiyoshi, still lying under the tree, she whispered a quiet prayer that today might mark the beginning of something new, something healing for both the boy and the couple eager to embrace him.

The future was uncertain, but in the quiet of the afternoon, beneath the rustling leaves, the director allowed herself to hope.

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***