Episode 2
It was on the outskirts of the capital—a cold, drafty building renovated from an old school. The orphanage housed many children but not enough caretakers.
Still, on the day the sponsors visited, the place looked its best. The children decorated the building with flowers made from scrap fabric and wore hand-knitted ribbons on their hair.
Nobles and nouveau riche sponsors patted the children’s heads once, left some money, and departed, basking in the illusion of their own generosity.
One by one, children were taken away—adopted, or so it seemed. In truth, most were taken as young maids or companions, treated more like pets than family.
Yet, the children clung to hope. Anything was better than staying at the orphanage.
Sponsors always wanted the same type of child: a smart, kind, and young one.
Monica met the first two conditions—she was smart and kind—but she wasn’t young. At eight years old, she had already been too old when she arrived. Sponsors preferred children too young to know right from wrong.
Still, Monica’s chance came.
A semi-noble family sponsoring the orphanage expressed interest in adopting a child.
The man who visited the director’s office explained that his wife, heartbroken after a miscarriage twelve years ago, longed for a child.
“Twelve years old. I want a smart and kind child. A boy would be difficult… a girl would be better.”
Naturally, the director recommended Monica.
She was quick-witted and intelligent. At twelve, she cared for younger children, waking them in the morning, washing their faces, and teaching them letters she had quickly learned herself.
From the director’s perspective, Monica was an ideal candidate. He likely thought it better to send her away than a less competent child who might be returned.
Then the man added, “She must have black hair. It looks classy, even without much effort.”
Monica’s black hair sealed the decision.
“There is a child just like you want!” the director exclaimed.
“Really? That’s good.”
“Yes, her name is Monica…”
Unbeknownst to them, another child overheard the conversation.
Lizzie Offen.
She and Monica had been cleaning the room across from the director’s office that day. Their eyes met.
Monica noticed the envy and sadness swirling in Lizzie’s gray eyes.
Lizzie was Monica’s age and had the same black hair. But unlike Monica, Lizzie was slow and clumsy. She struggled to learn letters, even with Monica’s help, and lacked skill in most tasks.
Still, Lizzie admired and envied Monica.
That night, when the other children were asleep, Lizzie knelt beside Monica’s bed, held her hand, and whispered through her tears,
“Monica, please. Could you give me that spot?”
Monica hesitated. She didn’t want to give in. But she doubted Lizzie could convince the director either.
“I don’t think the director will agree…” Monica stammered.
Lizzie clung to Monica’s pajama hem desperately, her grip threatening to tear the sturdy fabric.
“I’ll handle it! Somehow!” Lizzie cried.
“How?”
“The carriage comes tomorrow. You just need to hide for a moment. Here, take this!”
Lizzie offered her a prized possession: a pink brooch.
The brooch was worthless to adults but priceless to the children. When sunlight hit it, the faux gem scattered pink light across the white walls. Monica had always coveted it.
“You can have the brooch. Just let me go in your place.”
Monica was torn. Lizzie’s words of desperation hit her hard.
“You’re smart and pretty,” Lizzie sobbed. “I get scolded every day. I’ll never have another chance. I’m stupid and useless! But you’ll have more chances!”
Monica felt pity for Lizzie, who endured daily scoldings and lived with an apron perpetually wrinkled from her nervous fidgeting.
The next morning, Monica hid in the attic, holding the pink brooch. From the window, she watched Lizzie climb into the noble family’s carriage without looking back.
That day, the director beat Monica until her leg was bruised and swollen. “Do you think there will be a next time?” he shouted.
He was right. There was no next time.
Lizzie never returned, not even years later when Monica was forced to leave the orphanage at eighteen.
—
Years passed.
Monica sighed, adjusting her taffeta dress. The summer heat clung to her, but it was her only decent outfit, and she needed it for tomorrow as well.
La Spezia’s streets, still undeveloped, sent up clouds of dirt with every step. Monica, lost in thought, didn’t realize she had wandered into the harbor.
The salty wind mingled with the warm sunlight, carrying the chatter of sailors and merchants.
“Excuse me, how do I get to the train station—” Monica tried to ask, but no one paid attention.
At last, she spotted the train station’s clock tower in the distance and turned towards it.
But before she could take a step, she collided with someone.
“Oh,” Monica gasped, stumbling into a firm chest.
“Are you alright, miss?”
A soft, warm voice drew her attention.
Looking up, Monica found herself face-to-face with a young man. His golden hair shimmered in the sunlight, and his piercing blue eyes held her gaze.
“Wow!?” she murmured in daze.
The man’s face blurred, her thoughts swirling like the harbor wind.
—
