The rain had just stopped, but the scent of it still lingered in the air — thick, earthy, and clean. The sky above the orphanage was a soft gray blanket, hiding the sun, but the children were already out again, chasing puddles like they'd never seen them before.
Among them was a little girl with long black hair tied up in a loose ponytail. Her dress was muddy from the knees down, and her bare feet splashed as she ran across the small orphanage garden.
"Adrienne!" she shouted, holding something in both hands. "Look what I found!"
A boy a few years older than her, sitting under the old guava tree reading a book with torn pages, looked up. His lips curved into a crooked smile as he saw her running toward him.
"What is it this time, Lia?" he asked, using the nickname only he ever used. "Another snail?"
"Nope." She stopped in front of him and opened her cupped hands.
Inside lay a tiny purple flower — slightly wilted, bruised from the storm, but still intact.
"It fell from the bush," she said softly. "I think it's still alive."
Adrienne squinted. "It's dying."
"No, it's not. It's just... sad." She looked at him seriously. "We can save it. I want to plant it again."
Adrienne sighed and stood up, brushing the dirt off his pants. "You and your dramatic flowers."
"Shut up and help me," she said, giggling.
The two of them knelt in the corner of the garden where no one else played — their secret spot, just beside the fence where weeds grew wild. Dahlia dug a small hole with her fingers, careful not to damage the roots. Adrienne helped cover the flower with soil, pressing it gently.
"Okay," she said. "Now we wait."
"For what?"
"For it to grow again."
Adrienne looked at her for a long moment, then said, "Do you think we'll still be here when it grows?"
Dahlia didn't answer at first.
That question hung in the air like a gust of wind that made her stomach twist. It was something they didn't talk about — the idea of one of them getting adopted and leaving the other behind. Kids left all the time. They just never came back.
"I don't know," she finally whispered.
Adrienne sat beside her in the grass, pulling his knees up to his chest. "I don't want to leave this place if it means leaving you."
Dahlia bit her lip. "You have to promise me something."
"What?"
"If you ever leave… you won't forget me."
He turned to her and extended his pinky. "I promise."
She locked hers with his. "Me too. I'll wait for you. Even if it takes forever."
---
They spent the rest of the afternoon lying on the grass, talking about the silly things they'd do if they ever got rich — Dahlia wanted to open a café where all the desserts were shaped like animals. Adrienne wanted to build a houseboat and live on the river. They laughed until the nuns called everyone inside for dinner.
And before heading in, they checked on the little flower they'd planted — as if their hopes were already starting to bloom.
---
Two Years Later…
The garden looked different now.
The old fence had been painted, the weeds trimmed. Even the spot where they planted the flower had changed — the soil overgrown, forgotten.
Dahlia sat by the window, watching the rain drizzle again. She was twelve now. Her hair was longer, her eyes quieter. She hadn't planted anything since that day.
"Dahlia."
She turned around. Sister Elena stood behind her, looking gentle but serious.
"You should come to the front. Adrienne… he's leaving."
Her heart skipped a beat.
"What?"
The sister didn't need to repeat it.
Dahlia ran — down the hallway, past the other children, past the kitchen where the smell of soup drifted, past the entrance — and burst through the front doors.
The rain had slowed to a mist.
A black car was parked by the gate. A well-dressed couple stood beside it. Adrienne was with them, holding a small backpack. He looked taller. Older. His hair was neater, but his eyes were confused. His hand was in the grip of the man beside him.
"Adrienne!!" she screamed.
He turned sharply.
Their eyes met. For one frozen second, neither moved.
She ran toward him.
He took a step forward—only for the man to tighten his grip. "Adrienne," the man said, "get in the car."
"I just—wait—" Adrienne tried to speak, but the woman opened the car door.
"Come on now," she said gently, but firmly.
"No! I have to—" Adrienne's voice broke, and the man pulled him away.
The door slammed shut.
The car drove off.
Dahlia stood there in the rain, panting. Soaked. Silent.
He didn't say goodbye.
And she never got the chance to ask him if he still remembered the flower they planted.
---
That was the day the rain stopped feeling peaceful.
That was the day her best friend became a memory.
And that was the day she silently promised:
"One day… if we ever meet again, I'll make sure you remember me."