Chapter 24 – The Boy Who Woke
Warmth.
That was the first thing Joshua felt.
Then sound — muffled voices, soft weeping, a faint whisper of prayers.
And finally… light.
He blinked slowly, his vision blurry at first.
And the voices quietened down.
When his eyes cleared, he realized he was lying on a small bed inside one of the orphanage rooms.
Around him, children huddled together, watching anxiously.
At his side sat Madam Page — her old hands clasped tightly together, her eyes red from crying.
> "Joshua?" she whispered, voice trembling. "Child… can you hear me?"
Joshua looked at her blankly.
For a few seconds, nothing made sense.
Faces blurred. Voices sounded foreign.
Even his name called in that fashion felt strange.
His heart pounded as fragments of memory collided in his mind — visions, dreams, lives.
Flashes of light. Ten long years of laughter, play, and warmth in this place.
The flood of memories hit all at once, and Joshua gasped softly.
He remembered.
When his gaze returned to Madam Page, something shifted.
For an instant, his eyes weren't those of a child.
They glowed faintly — calm, knowing, ancient — the same divine shimmer Page had seen once, long ago.
Her breath caught.
It was like looking into that same light from ten years before — the same light that had frozen the world still.
She inhaled sharply, clutching her chest as if time had rewound itself.
But then — it faded.
The glow in Joshua's eyes softened, replaced by the innocence of a boy once more.
He blinked, confusion melting into a shy, tired smile.
> "Grandma…?"
Her eyes filled with tears as relief washed over her.
She pulled him into her arms, trembling.
> "Oh, thank the heavens…" she whispered. "I thought I lost you."
He said nothing at first, only leaned into her warmth.
When she finally pulled away to wipe her eyes, she smiled shakily.
> "You must be hungry, child. Rest here — I'll get you something warm to eat."
Joshua nodded.
> "Thank you, Grandma."
Madam Page left the room, still muttering prayers under her breath, leaving the children alone with him.
Almost immediately, the others rushed closer.
A dozen small faces hovered around his bed, their eyes wide with worry — and guilt.
One of the boys scratched the back of his head.
> "We… uh… didn't mean to hit you with the ball."
Another chimed in quickly,
> "Yeah! I told him not to kick it so hard!"
A smaller child pouted.
> "We thought the untouchable Joshua couldn't get hurt!"
That made everyone laugh — even Joshua.
The tension in the air melted away, replaced by soft laughter and playful teasing.
Someone grinned.
> "Guess even our indestructible hero can fall down sometimes."
Another girl crossed her arms dramatically.
> "I told you guys to stop playing ! Now see? You almost broke Joshua and the window!"
> "But the window's fine!" one of the boys protested. "Joshua broke the fall for it!"
The others gasped, then burst into laughter again.
> "You mean he broke instead of the window," one teased.
"That's not funny!" another scolded, but she was already giggling.
Joshua couldn't help but chuckle, the warmth of their laughter filling his chest.
> "Yeah," he murmured softly. "I guess even heroes need a nap."
> "Next time you faint," one of the younger kids said with a tiny frown, "warn us first. I nearly cried!"
> "You did cry," another boy said immediately, grinning. "You were bawling like a baby."
> "Shut up, I was just… watering the floor!"
The whole room erupted again.
Joshua looked at them — their messy hair, tear-streaked faces, their smiles returning — and felt something stir in his chest.
The peace felt foreign to him. The laughter so innocent, the concern pure.
He felt a myriad of emotions as he spoke to the children.
> "Thank you, everyone," he said quietly. "For worrying about me."
The children smiled, and one of them reached out to squeeze his hand.
> "Don't scare us like that again, okay?"
Joshua smiled faintly, eyes soft.
> "I'll try not to."
And for a little while, the world outside didn't exist — only laughter, friendship, and light.
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