（Ros's POV）
The first thing I remember was not the room.
Not the bed.
Not the walls.
It was sound.
The sound of scissors.
Snip.
Pause.
Snip.
Pause.
The rhythm was even.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Like someone carving lines into the air.
One cut.
One cut.
One cut.
That was my earliest memory of the orphanage.
Not crying.
Not arguments.
Not names being called.
Work.
The sound came from the other end of the corridor.
Through walls.
Through doors.
Through distance.
And it never stopped.
The church orphanage stood at the edge of the old district.
The road outside was narrow.
Occasionally, a car passed.
Its sound stretched far before fading.
The walls were high.
When you looked up, your vision was pressed down.
White paint had been applied many times.
New layers covering old ones.
Thin spots turned gray.
Thick spots reflected light.
Some places peeled.
Edges curled upward.
Like paper pasted and torn off again and again.
The iron gate dragged every time it opened.
The sound started at the hinge.
Then stretched outward.
Like a line being drawn across the ground.
Not sharp.
But long.
Closing it was heavier.
Metal meeting metal.
A dull impact.
It echoed once in the yard.
The yard was not large.
Concrete ground.
Gray.
Cracked.
Dust settled into the cracks.
After rain, water gathered.
The water reflected the walls.
Reflected a narrow strip of sky.
The windows were set high.
Standing in the yard, looking up,
you could only see a long, thin piece of sky.
That sky was narrow.
Clouds moved slowly across it.
As if cut into a strip.
Wind came down from above.
By the time it reached the ground,
it had already softened.
Most children here did not have names.
Numbers were written on record cards.
The edges of the paper were worn soft.
Numbers were written inside clothing labels.
The fabric was rough.
Loose threads pricked the skin.
Numbers were written on the far left of the schedule.
Black ink.
Vertical rows.
I was not a number.
Seven was.
Numbers were not called wrong.
Numbers carried no emotion.
Numbers were only order.
When spoken, there was no pause.
No change in tone.
Just reading.
By the time I learned to walk,
Seven had already been there for years.
He was eight.
I was three.
The low-age section had old mats.
The edges curled upward.
Stepping on them felt soft.
The air smelled of soap water.
And cloth.
I could not walk steadily.
My steps tilted.
My knees often scraped the ground.
The floor was cold.
The cold climbed upward from the skin.
That year, outsourced orders suddenly increased.
The scissors became denser.
Fabric piled higher.
Footsteps in the corridor multiplied.
Several girls assigned to the low-age group
were transferred to the workshop.
They did not speak when they left.
They removed their aprons.
Hung them properly.
Then left.
A space opened in the low-age section.
The nun flipped through the list in her office.
The sound of paper turning was dry and slow.
Her fingertip brushed each page,
making a faint friction sound.
Her finger stopped on a number.
Seven.
The evaluation column had only a few lines:
Obedient.
Stable efficiency.
Does not cause trouble.
Nothing else.
Rules were skipped.
Caring for younger children
was originally the task of older girls.
That day, Seven was called.
He put down the unfinished piece of cloth.
The needle was still in it.
Thread hanging loose.
He secured the needle.
Placed the cloth neatly aside.
Then stood up.
No questions.
No frown.
The chair legs dragged softly against the ground.
He walked into the low-age section.
Stopped in front of me.
His expression was flat.
His eyes quiet.
He didn't know how to hold me.
His hands paused in the air.
The nun demonstrated once.
Support.
Close.
Stable.
Seven learned.
Slow movements.
Arms slightly stiff.
When I was lifted,
my body leaned forward.
He adjusted.
Held tighter.
His breathing was steady.
I could hear it.
I fell often.
When I ran,
my feet caught on the edges of the mats.
After falling,
I would pause first.
Look at the ground.
Look at the gray concrete.
Look at my own hands.
Then cry.
Not loud.
Short.
Seven would walk over.
Not fast.
He would crouch.
Help me up.
His palm temperature was stable.
He didn't speak.
He didn't comfort.
Didn't say "don't cry."
Didn't pat my back.
He simply put me back
into a standing position.
Waited until I was steady.
Then let go.
And returned to work.
Later, there was a ball.
An old leather ball.
Its surface worn pale.
Some parts cracked.
Stitches raised.
Seven stood at the edge of the work area.
He tossed the ball lightly.
The arc was low.
It landed in front of me.
Rolled.
I chased it, unsteady.
Heavy steps.
Fast breathing.
Picked it up.
My fingers couldn't grip well.
Threw it back.
Off target.
He caught it.
Threw again.
No smile.
No praise.
No counting.
Just repetition.
The ball moved back and forth in the air.
Soft sounds.
Days.
Weeks.
The workshop was divided into three types.
The first was repetition.
Beading.
Folding paper.
Pasting.
Simple stitching.
Fixed movements.
Fabric pressed against the table.
Hands moving back and forth.
Follow the template.
Most children were there.
Heads lowered.
Silent.
The second was precision.
Coloring.
Sorting.
Quality checking.
It required focus.
Brushes moved in small ranges.
Eyes stayed close.
Breathing slowed.
The third was outsourcing.
Large quantity.
Tight deadlines.
Highest pressure.
Fabric stacked.
Boxes against walls.
Supervisors pacing.
Seven started in the first category.
Near the window.
Light fell from above.
Onto the back of his hands.
He wasn't fast.
Almost never made mistakes.
Threads were neat.
Edges aligned.
Later, he began to be called away.
"Seven. Come."
The tone was neutral.
He stood up.
Placed down what he was doing.
Moved his chair slightly back.
Changed positions.
From repetition
to precision.
From precision
to outsourcing.
Wherever something slowed,
he stood there.
Wherever something piled up,
he sat down.
He was like a spacer inserted into gaps.
Filling them.
No one officially gave him a title.
He was not a supervisor.
But he was always
at the critical point.
I sat in the low-age section.
Later, in the inner side of the first category.
I could see his back.
When he changed tables,
I followed him with my eyes.
My neck turned slowly.
Not out of curiosity.
Confirmation.
As long as he was moving,
things were continuing.
The outsourcing section was the hardest.
Summer was suffocating.
The air sticky.
Windows opened only a slit.
Heat stayed inside.
Scissors grew denser.
Sounds connecting together.
Fabric friction layered.
Glue smell thickened.
It stuck inside the nose.
Seven stayed the latest.
Others went to eat.
A row of chairs emptied.
The sound reduced by half.
He finished the last batch.
Thread through holes.
Scissors falling.
Stable movements.
No complaints.
No looking up.
He returned to the dorm last.
Half the corridor lights were off.
The light turned yellow.
His shadow stretched long.
He climbed onto the bed quietly.
The frame creaked softly.
His breathing became even.
The next day,
continued.
I grew.
Clothes changed to larger sizes.
No longer needed diapers.
I was assigned to the first category.
The table reached my chest.
I learned beading.
The thread slipped between my fingers.
My hands were slow.
Beads fell.
Rolled away.
Sometimes Seven passed by.
He didn't stop.
But if a gap appeared in my row—
someone called away—
If the rhythm broke for a moment,
He would sit down.
Not for me.
For that segment.
His hands moved beside mine.
Thread steady.
And I felt… stable.
My shoulders loosened slightly.
I began to watch him.
Not his face.
His back.
His back was steady.
Shoulder line straight.
Clothes didn't sway much.
Steps even.
Footsteps light.
Even when the room sped up,
when supervisors grew urgent,
He didn't.
My understanding of order
came from him.
The world could be small.
A table.
Scissors.
Fabric.
A ball.
As long as the cycle continued—
Throw.
Chase.
Catch.
Continue.
Then one day—
The air didn't change.
The sound didn't change.
He just stood still.
At seventy,
he lost his sight.
Not blurred.
Not dim.
Empty.
The pupils—
as if evaporated with his hair.
Black disappeared.
Only white remained.
The eye sockets were quiet.
He reached out
to touch the edge of the table.
Slower than usual.
His hand touched fabric first.
Pressed lightly.
Then scissors.
Cold metal.
Then air.
His hand stopped midair.
The scissors fell.
A clear sound.
Metal hitting ground.
Bouncing once.
For the first time,
the outsourcing section stopped.
Scissors stopped.
Fabric stopped.
The air missed a beat.
The supervisor did not shout.
Just walked over.
Shoes rubbing against the ground.
Picked up the scissors.
Placed them back.
Then said:
"Seven. Stop."
Flat tone.
Seven did not stop.
He kept moving his hands.
On the table.
Beads misaligned.
Thread missing holes.
Glue smeared off.
Brush dragging crooked lines.
Within thirty minutes,
the defect rate doubled.
Waste piled to one side.
The nun came.
Even steps.
No scolding.
No sigh.
Only one question:
"Can you confirm you can't see?"
Seven nodded.
A small motion.
Chin lowering slightly.
The next day,
he was assigned to sweep the yard.
The broom dragged across concrete.
Dust lifted.
A dry scraping sound.
He swept slowly.
Edges hitting walls.
Direction drifting.
On the third day,
he had no position.
He stood in the corridor.
Not called.
Scissors continued.
On the fourth day,
Seven was no longer in the orphanage.
The iron gate opened.
Then closed.
The sound was the same as always.
Only that day,
the outsourcing report
had one fewer number.
That was the first time.
The orphanage became busier than usual.
Not because someone was gone.
Because a function was gone.
The workshop slowed.
Not due to fewer orders.
Due to fewer substitutions.
The first category began to pile up.
Unfinished pieces lined the table edges.
Precision work increased rework.
Brushes moved back and forth.
Color layered over color.
In outsourcing,
the supervisor walked more often.
Footsteps frequent.
The nun came three times a day.
Door open.
Door close.
Before, it wasn't needed.
Before, Seven would already be there.
Now, empty spots remained empty.
Chairs stayed vacant.
Fabric stayed piled.
Waiting for assignment.
Assignment took time.
Time accumulated.
The air grew heavy.
Glue smell lingered.
Scissors sometimes lost rhythm.
The orphanage did not collapse.
It just became—
Busier.
Slower.
Heavier.