There was a different kind of pain that lived in the orphanage—a pain that didn't bruise the skin but settled deep in the chest like a cold that never left. It was the kind of silence that grew loud at night, when no one was screaming, and no belts cracked through the air. It was the silence of children who no longer asked why, because the answers never came. It was the emptiness that seemed to seep into the bones, leaving a weight so heavy that even breathing felt like a chore.
Anna sat on her mattress with her knees pulled to her chest, staring at the wall. The rough wool blanket was too thin to keep her warm, but she didn't mind. The cold was something she had grown used to. Calvin was asleep again, curled into a tight ball beside her. His breathing was uneven, shallow, as if the world around him had become too heavy to bear. Anna reached over and tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. His face was still pale, the thin line of his lips barely visible in the dim moonlight that leaked in through the dusty window.
The night was always worse. The day was full of noise—the slapping of feet on the hard floors, the clatter of dishes, the shouts from Nanny Elga when things weren't done to her liking. But at night, there was only the silence. The kind that crawled under the skin, tightening the chest until it felt like the air itself was an enemy. The kind that made Anna want to scream but knew it wouldn't matter. No one would hear.
The moonlight cast ghostly shapes across the room, shadows that stretched long across the bare floorboards. She looked around the dormitory. The other children lay on their mattresses, some whispering to themselves, others staring up at the ceiling with blank expressions. They had all learned to keep their thoughts to themselves, to hide whatever hope or memory they had left. To ask questions was to invite punishment. To show weakness was to open a door that might never close.
Across from her was Mila. She had been in the orphanage longer than anyone. Her eyes were dull, like they had long since stopped seeing anything that mattered. Her face was always blank, a mask that never cracked, never betrayed any emotion. Anna had asked her name once, long ago.
"What's your name?" she had asked shyly, a flicker of curiosity rising within her.
Mila had only stared at her for a moment before turning away, her eyes empty, like she was shutting herself off from the world. Anna didn't ask again.
Mila's presence in the room was a quiet reminder of what they were all becoming. She was the living embodiment of the orphanage's power to strip away everything—the joy, the dreams, the futures. Anna had seen Mila cry only once, quietly, late at night when no one else was awake. She had sat in the dark, her body trembling, the tears slipping down her cheeks like they didn't belong to her. No sound. Just the rhythm of her sobs, so soft that Anna had barely heard them over her own thoughts.
But no one mentioned it. No one spoke of the tears or the emptiness. It was as though they had all come to accept that silence was safer than words.
No one asked about their parents anymore. No one talked about birthdays or favorite colors or anything that could remind them of who they had once been. The youngest children were the most afraid—afraid to dream, afraid to hope. They learned quickly that joy was dangerous here, like a flame that burned too brightly and drew the wrong kind of attention. It was always snuffed out—dashed against the floor, forgotten.
Even Calvin, once so full of life, had stopped humming his little songs. Anna remembered the soft melody he used to murmur to himself when he thought no one was listening. It had been the only thing that kept them both sane, the only thing that made them feel like they weren't completely lost. But now, even that had faded. He was too tired, too hollow, his soul already half-dead from the unrelenting neglect.
"Do you think she's coming back?" Calvin asked one day, his voice thin as paper, his eyes distant as though the question had been haunting him for some time.
Anna froze. The question was a dagger, sharp and unexpected. For a moment, she couldn't answer. Her mind raced, a thousand excuses and lies running through her head, but none of them felt real. She had learned, over the years, that some truths were too painful to say aloud. Some things were better left unspoken.
"Who?" she asked, trying to buy time.
"Mama," Calvin whispered. His eyes were wide, searching, his lips trembling like he was afraid that the answer would break him.
Anna's heart ached. She had seen the way Calvin's eyes shone with a quiet hope, a belief that one day, someone—anyone—would come to take them away from this place. He hadn't given up, not completely. And a part of Anna had wanted to lie to him, to tell him that their mother would return for them, that they would one day be free.
But the words caught in her throat. She couldn't lie to him. Not anymore.
"I don't think so," she whispered, the words coming out ragged. "But we still have each other."
The silence that followed was thick and heavy. Calvin didn't answer. His shoulders slumped, the light in his eyes dimming just a little bit more. Something inside him had cracked—something fragile and precious—and Anna could feel it, like a thread snapping in the dark. She wanted to reach out, to comfort him, but there were no words left. Nothing that would make it better.
It was in that moment, sitting beside her brother in the darkness, that Anna realized something she had been trying to ignore for so long. The worst part wasn't the beatings or the hunger. It wasn't the cold or the filth that coated everything in this place. It wasn't even Nanny Elga's cruelty.
No. The worst part was the silence.
The silence that swallowed everything. The silence that stole their voices, their dreams, their memories. The silence that erased them, bit by bit, until they were nothing but shadows on the walls. It was the fear that lingered in the air, rewriting who they were and what they had been. The fear that turned them into ghosts—alive, yes, but invisible.
Anna closed her eyes, trying to hold onto something, anything, that was real. Her body ached from the strain of holding it all in—holding the weight of Calvin's pain, of her own loneliness, of the deep, aching need for something different. Something better. But she couldn't escape. Not yet.
And then she felt it—a faint tug, deep inside her. A tiny spark of resistance. It was the first sign that something inside her hadn't given up. Not completely. She still remembered who she was. She still had the will to fight.
But the fight was a quiet one. A fight that didn't show up in shouts or violent rebellion. It was a fight that simmered beneath the surface, growing stronger with each passing day. A fight to stay human in a place that wanted to strip them of everything.
"Don't worry," she whispered, her voice hoarse from the weight of everything she hadn't said. "I'll get us out of here, Calvin. I promise."
But she wasn't sure if she could keep that promise. She wasn't sure if there was a way out at all. All she knew was that the silence was growing louder, and she couldn't bear to listen to it anymore. Not for herself. Not for Calvin.