The soft scratching of a pen against paper echoed lightly throughout the room. It was nighttime-- prime time for getting the last bits of paperwork pushed through for the next day. Some inventory here, current statuses there, the adding and crossing-off of entries on a to-do list off to the side.

Much of the house by now was empty, the children from Stipa moved on to begin the next chapters of their lives. All that needed to be done now were the final touches on their personal files before putting them in their final resting place.

Hearing that familiar soft beat of small footsteps I stopped writing and waited, eyes to the door.

Much of the house was empty, except for one.

It took only a few seconds before a tiny knock drummed on the door which had been left open a crack. The resulting creak surprised them, it seemed, as I heard a faint gasp in response.

"Yes?" I asked.

"Can I come in?" they asked back.

"You can."

The door was slowly pushed open to reveal a small child. He was our last one, wearing a baggy short-sleeved nightshirt and topped with long unkempt hair. He was a quiet, shy child who hadn't interacted much with the other children, instead preferring to hide away alone or stick closely to whichever staffmember would humor him. It was...uncomfortably relatable, and though he didn't mean it I couldn't help but feel a little uneasy around him-- disarmed even. I knew it was foolish and misguided, so I tried to rein in that feeling the best I could.

In one hand he held a piece of paper, though I couldn't make out what it contained from here.

"Oh, what have you got there?" I asked, pointing my nose to his paper.

"I-I made a pitcher...for you," he replied, the page visibly trembling in his hand.

"...For me?"

I was genuinely surprised. None of the other kids had ever done that before, at least not for me. Given my position I wasn't really able to interact with them as much as I would like, almost all of my work relegated to managerial slog and pushing papers.

He nodded, but looked unsure as the paper still shook in his hands.

"...Are you alright?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Uh...I just--"

His ears sank and he turned his head away from me, looking down somewhere to his side. I cocked my head slightly. Thinking about it, he'd never interacted with me one-on-one like this before, aside from his initial move-in. Was he scared? Of me, of all people?

"You can talk to me," I reassured. "I'm not going to bite you."

It took a little time, but he eventually mustered up the courage to walk up to my desk. I considered getting up and walking the rest of the way but figured I ought not to, that maybe appearing shorter would be less...intimidating.

"Come walk around this way," I said, waving my hand to the open end of the desk. "It'll be easier for both of us."

The child did as I offered, shuffling around the open side but stopping a couple feet away. Slowly he extended his arms with the page flipped over. I reached out to accept it, turning it over once received.

On the page were two crude figures on a grassy, flowery lawn holding hands and smiling, their colors representative of our own.

"Is this us?" I inquired, unable to take my eyes off of it.

"Y...Yes," he answered. "I h-hope you like it."

I just stared at it, wide-eyed. Before long I felt something warm slowly trail down my cheek as he raised his hands to cover his mouth. His movement brought me back to the present and his face was one of fear. I didn't understand.

I reached my hand up to touch the cooling trail. Wet. How--

"I-I'm sorry, Father, I didn't mean--," he squeaked, terrified. "I'll throw it away, I'm sorry!"

"No no no, you didn't do anything wrong, it's okay," I said hushedly. "I'm not upset at all, I promise."

"...You're not?"

"I love it. I really do."

And I meant that.

"But then...why did--"

"...I'm not sure, either, I'm afraid," I turned and stood to pin the drawing on my bulletin board. "But now it has a home right next to where I do all of my important work, okay?"

His expression was an odd mix of happy and nervous -- hesitant -- and he still wouldn't look at me, at least not for more than a couple seconds. I took a step toward him as he took a step back.

"...Are you afraid of me?" I finally asked.

He stayed silent, again looking down to his side. This was eerily reminiscent.

I tilted my head, unsure of how to go about this. I'd never been in my position before, rather I...

...Ah...

Hm...

I took a knee in front of him and reached out both hands, palms up and open. He looked to my hands, tensing up his own before gradually offering his and placing them in mine. I gently closed mine around his, rubbing the back of his small hands with my thumbs.

"If I've given a poor impression, it wasn't my intention," I said. "I don't want you to feel afraid of me or anyone else here, and I'm sorry if I've done something to scare you this badly."

"...It's not you," he whimpered, shaking his head, "...the other kids with the orange eyes."

"What about them?"

"...They didn't like me. Said I was creepy and that I don't belong here. Sometimes they'd steal and rip up my drawings, or hit me when no one's looking."

I was shocked. All of that...from pures? I could hardly believe it, but he had no reason to lie now that they'd all been sent on their ways. I'd not seen or collected any reports about these behaviors. Did he wait until now because...he was afraid of what would happen if he said anything?

"You're afraid because I have eyes like them?"

He grimaced and his hands lightly squeezed my fingers. I had never been the one feared, only...the one afraid. I had no idea this happened, or that it even could.

"Well...I'm very sorry for those things happening," I said. "Unfortunately I can't do anything about their actions now, but I'm not going to do those things. You belong here as much as anyone else. Understand?"

He pondered what I said for a moment before giving me a shallow nod.

"Please look at me," I requested.

With much hesitation his eyes met my own-- his an unnerving pale green and mine an alarming, fierce orange. I'd reckon much of the feeling was mutual.

"You belong here."

A small smile crept upon his face.

"Will you be alright for the night?" I asked.

"I think so," he replied.

"Do you need me to escort you to bed?"

"Ain't you busy?"

I looked at the small stack of papers atop my desk. It was still pretty early in the night and I'd be up quite a while yet.

"Those can wait," I assured. "Let's get you to bed."

I stood back up to my feet and the tiny child carefully took me by the hand, both of us slowly making our way down the dim hallway, past the new staff room, and to a door left ajar. We both pushed the door open further and he led me inside. Upon entry his hand left mine and he stood in front of his futon. Without thinking I walked forward and pulled back the comforter. He turned around, confused, but I just nodded. Carefully he sat on the futon and lay down, after which I replaced the covers over top of him. He grabbed the near corner of the comforter and pulled it toward him, his face awash with uncertainty.

"...Thank you."

"It's not a problem," I said through a small, conflicted smile of my own. "Sleep well, I'll see you tomorrow."

With that I quietly walked back out the door, closing it all but a crack before turning back toward my office. I closed my door and reclaimed my seat and pen, ready to finish the last few documents for the night, but turned to my right to look again at the drawing pinned to my board.

My chest began to hurt and my eyes welled up, unleashing tears I forgot I had and burning trails down my face. I delicately swept the papers to the side and replaced the freed space with my arms, burying my face into the crook of my elbows and digging my nails into my scalp.

It'll be a long night.

Those can wait.

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