(Ros's POV)
Two years later, I formally entered the workshop.
The table was slightly higher than I remembered.
Not because it had changed—
but because I had grown.
When the thread passed between my fingers,
it left a faint friction.
The fabric was much harder than the mats in the low-age section.
Its edges pressed against my wrists,
leaving shallow red marks.
The air was still dry.
The scent of cleaning agents was kept at a very low concentration.
Not sharp.
But always present.
The day Seven stepped back into the orphanage,
nothing happened.
No one stopped cutting.
No one raised their voice.
Not because he was unnoticeable.
But because this place
did not assign extra meaning
to those who returned.
Children grew up.
Children left.
Sometimes they came back
to confirm whether they still existed
in a certain position.
That kind of behavior
was not unusual here.
The air inside was drier than outside.
Not due to weather.
But from long-term ventilation
mixed with cleaning chemicals.
It kept the space
in a range that was uncomfortable,
yet stable.
It did not encourage people to stay.
Nor did it drive them away.
Seven walked down the corridor.
I heard the floor respond beneath him.
A few wooden planks were loose.
They gave a short rebound when stepped on.
That was not decay.
It was repair.
Places that had been fixed repeatedly
became harder than the original.
Each repair
only extended its life
a little longer.
Old notices were posted on the wall.
Corners curled.
Paper yellowed.
The content had long expired.
They were not removed.
No one was responsible
for deciding when they should be.
Seven did not look at them.
His steps did not deviate.
At the far end of the corridor,
a few younger children were moving supplies.
Their movements were unskilled.
But already divided.
One lifted.
One supported.
One pushed.
No arguments.
When Seven passed them,
one child looked up at him.
The gaze paused
for a brief moment.
Then lowered again.
I saw that moment.
The thought was short.
This older brother used to be here.
Not curiosity.
Confirmation.
Then attention returned
to the box in his hands.
No continuation.
Seven kept walking.
And I realized something.
He no longer belonged here.
Not rejected.
Filed away.
Like a number
removed from a report.
I was crouched by the window,
sorting fabric.
The cloth was not new.
Colors uneven.
Some gray.
Some dim.
I separated them.
Aligned them.
Stacked them neatly.
Slow movements.
No hesitation.
When Seven passed,
my hands paused.
Not my head—
the thread simply stopped pulling straight.
My fingertip caught
on the edge of the cloth.
A brief stop.
Then I looked up.
He was slightly taller than before.
Shoulders straighter.
Clothes simple.
Nothing extra.
His white pupils
were clear under the light.
I saw them.
But his stance did not lose balance.
His gaze did not drift.
"Seven."
I called his name.
Not a question.
Not a test.
I confirmed first.
He nodded.
A small movement.
Enough.
I stood up.
Placed the cloth in my hands properly.
Pressed the edges flat.
More carefully than before.
"You came back."
Not welcome.
A statement.
"Mm."
His voice was the same.
No fluctuation.
I didn't ask more.
He wouldn't stay.
And this place
would not stop
for a single person.
I watched him walk
toward the end of the corridor.
That door was thicker
than the others.
He knocked.
Three times.
Even intervals.
The sound inside paused briefly.
"Come in."
The door closed.
The corridor returned to normal.
The sound of scissors
connected again.
I returned to my table.
The thread slid between my fingers.
But my breathing
slowed slightly.
I didn't know how much time passed.
The door opened.
Seven came out.
His pace unchanged.
I did not approach.
Only followed with the corner of my vision.
He left.
That night,
he did not stay.
The next morning,
I heard something outside.
Not scissors.
Not wood.
Dragging.
I walked to the window.
The sky had not fully brightened.
The air carried cold.
Seven walked from a distance.
A wild boar
rested on his shoulder.
Its body larger than him.
The weight pressed
onto one side of his frame.
But his steps did not sway.
Each step landed steadily.
The boar's body
shifted slightly
with his movement.
No exaggerated blood.
Just dark.
No one gathered.
People stood at doorways.
Behind windows.
Watching.
The gaze was quiet.
No discussion.
No amazement.
Only confirmation.
I heard my own breathing.
Shallow.
The nun stood at the entrance.
She did not approach.
Did not stop him.
Just watched.
Seven placed the prey down.
Clean movement.
No display.
He said nothing.
A few days later,
a vehicle arrived.
The engine was clear
in the early morning.
The iron gate opened.
The dragging sound stretched long.
Seven stood at the gate.
He did not turn back.
Wind came in from outside.
Carrying a different scent.
He got in.
The door closed.
A dull sound.
The vehicle left.
The gate shut again.
A few seconds later,
the scissors resumed.
The rhythm unchanged.
I sat back down.
Thread passed through my fingers.
Pulled tight.
Released.
Continued.
This time,
I did not look up again.
Two years later,
every year, Seven sent gifts
from the Academy.
The envelopes were thicker
than those used in the orphanage.
Edges pressed flat.
No creases.
The seal was tight.
The glue scent barely noticeable.
Each time the postman arrived,
the iron gate made
a short scraping sound.
Not sharp.
Just clear.
Like a repeated signal.
The packages were small.
Plain exterior.
No exaggerated markings.
The cardboard appeared
a pale gray under sunlight.
When the nun received it,
her fingers paused briefly
on the surface.
Confirming weight.
Never heavy.
Never light.
As if precisely calculated.
Sometimes books.
Sometimes pens.
Sometimes neatly folded fabric.
Nothing showy.
Colors restrained.
Materials quiet.
Of course,
not just objects.
Sometimes a sheet of paper inside.
Neat handwriting.
Even ink.
No extra words.
The paper lingered briefly in the air,
carrying a faint ink scent.
Detectable only up close.
The nuns' expressions
gradually changed.
At first, neutral.
Like handling ordinary donations.
Later,
when opening the package,
their movements softened.
No longer tearing directly—
but following the folds carefully.
Their tone did not change much.
But pauses became fewer.
The corridor air remained dry.
The cleaning scent diluted
to a low concentration.
Sunlight fell through window grids,
forming pale rectangles on the floor.
Dust drifted within the light.
The gifts were distributed.
Younger children gathered near the table.
Their fingers reached out cautiously.
Then pulled back quickly.
Older ones stood behind.
Watching.
Restrained expressions.
I stood at the edge of the group.
Neither stepping forward.
Nor back.
When the nun handed something to me,
I took it.
The paper felt cool
in my palm.
Edges clean.
No roughness.
Two years was not long.
Seasons shifted.
Leaves in the yard changed color.
Wind passed through the corners
of the walls,
carrying a slight chill.
77 and I were the same age.
He used to be quiet.
His voice soft.
Shoulders slightly drawn inward.
When called "Little Seven,"
he would lower his head.
Lips pressed.
Fingers gripping his clothes.
That posture was familiar.
Like something being held down.
He never fought back.
Only endured.
When laughter fell on him,
his back seemed to narrow further.
At some point,
he changed.
His movements became faster.
He no longer walked close to walls.
His steps landed heavier.
His arms swung wider.
His voice grew louder.
The ending of his sentences
carried sharpness.
I saw him hold eye contact
longer than before.
Not questioning.
Confronting.
The air tightened
in those moments.
Conflicts increased.
Not large ones.
Small frictions.
A heavier tone.
A rushed movement.
A chair dragged too loudly.
Metal legs scratching
against the floor.
Each conflict was brief.
Like sparks.
Falling.
Extinguishing.
But the intervals
grew shorter.
Today was the same.
Afternoon light slanted through the windows.
The gray-white sky pressed low.
The air was humid.
Cloth clung slightly to skin.
77 stood in the middle of the corridor
with another boy.
They were close.
Shoulders almost touching.
Their voices were low—
but unstable.
The other said something.
I didn't hear clearly.
But I saw—
77's breathing quicken.
His chest rose sharply.
His fingers opened.
Closed.
Knuckles pale.
He stepped forward.
The other did not move back.
The air tightened
like a stretched line.
As usual,
I walked over.
Steps light.
Stopped between them.
"Stop arguing."
My voice was not loud.
As always.
The other boy looked away.
77 did not.
Something moved
inside his eyes.
Not tears.
Light.
He suddenly shouted—
"I'm pissed off!"
The sound exploded outward.
Echoed through the corridor.
Reflected off the walls.
The air trembled.
"Everything—just explode!"
The words burst out.
His voice shaking at the end.
His arm swung—
and hit my shoulder.
In that instant,
time stretched.
I felt the contact.
Fabric friction.
Skin meeting skin.
Then—
the explosion.
The sound was not sharp.
It was compressed.
Heavy.
Like air being crushed
in an instant.
The ground shook.
Vision trembled.
My body was pushed away.
I was blasted off the ground.
Wind tore past my ears.
Air split along my face.
The next moment—
everything lost balance.