Morning came early at Little Hands Orphanage.
The bell rang before the sun had fully risen, sharp and impatient. It echoed through the narrow halls and thin walls, pulling sleep from every room. Almost at once, babies began to cry. Some cried softly, others loudly, as if competing to be heard first.
Footsteps followed. Caretakers moved quickly from room to room, their slippers scraping the floor. Someone knocked over a bucket of water. Someone else swore under their breath.
"It's too early for this," a woman muttered as she pushed open the nursery door.
The room was already alive with noise. Rows of small cribs lined the walls, each holding a child wrapped in thin blankets. Some babies kicked and cried. Others stared at the ceiling with wide, empty eyes.
The newest child lay near the window.
He was awake.
He had been awake long before the bell rang. His eyes followed the movement in the room, watching hands, faces, shadows on the wall. He did not cry. He only watched.
"Which one is he?" a young caretaker asked, stopping beside the cribs.
"The new one," another replied without looking up.
"That doesn't help," the first said. "They're all new to me."
She leaned over one crib, then another, checking tags tied to the railings. When she reached the one by the window, the baby stared straight at her. She paused.
"…Well," she said slowly, "at least this one's awake."
As if offended by the comment, the baby let out a sharp cry.
"Oh, don't start," she sighed, lifting him carefully. "I didn't mean it like that."
Across the room, another caretaker laughed. "You insulted him. Apologize."
"I am not apologizing to a baby."
The baby continued crying.
"Fine," she said at last. "I'm sorry."
The crying stopped.
Both women froze.
"…Did that work?" one asked.
The baby blinked, his small fists clenched, eyes still fixed on her face.
"Lucky guess," the other said quickly. "Babies are strange."
They went back to their work. Bottles were warmed. Blankets were changed. The room filled with the smell of soap and milk. Noise rose and fell in uneven waves.
The baby was placed back into his crib.
He did not cry again.
He watched the light move across the wall as the sun finally rose higher. Dust floated in the air. Somewhere down the hall, a child laughed and was immediately told to be quiet.
The orphanage settled into its usual rhythm.
No one noticed that the baby near the window did not sleep.
Later that morning, the noise in the orphanage softened into something manageable. Babies slept in uneven rows. A few cried now and then, mostly out of habit. The caretakers gathered near the desk by the nursery, tired but finally able to stand still.
Mrs. Grindle opened a thin folder and frowned.
"We still haven't named the new baby," she said. "And I refuse to write 'mountain child' on official records."
One caretaker shrugged. "Why not? It's memorable."
"It is not professional," Mrs. Grindle replied.
The baby lay awake in his crib near the window, staring upward. He seemed calm, unlike the others. Too calm, some might have said.
"All right," Mrs. Grindle said. "Suggestions."
"James," one woman offered.
The baby cried.
"Well, that answers that," someone muttered.
"What about Michael?" another suggested.
The crying grew louder.
Mrs. Grindle sighed. "He's going to lose his voice before noon."
A woman folding blankets nearby smiled. "What if we call him something fun? Like… Sir Mountain."
Several heads turned.
"Absolutely not," Mrs. Grindle said.
"What? He was found in the mountains," the woman defended. "It makes sense."
"It does not," Mrs. Grindle said flatly.
Another caretaker laughed. "Why stop there? Call him Snowstorm."
The baby cried harder.
"All right," Mrs. Grindle snapped. "Clearly, he has opinions."
She flipped through a list of common names, tapping the page with her finger.
"Thomas," she said.
The baby paused. His cry softened, then stopped.
The room went quiet.
"Oh no," someone said. "Don't tell me he understands us."
Mrs. Grindle narrowed her eyes. "Say it again."
"Thomas," she repeated.
The baby shifted slightly, fists unclenching. He made a small sound, barely louder than a breath.
"Well," one caretaker said, impressed, "that's the longest he's been quiet all day."
"It's coincidence," Mrs. Grindle said, though she wrote the name down anyway. "Babies calm down randomly."
Another woman leaned closer to the crib. "He doesn't look like a Thomas."
"He'll grow into it," Mrs. Grindle replied. "They always do."
The baby stared at the ceiling again, calm and alert.
To the orphanage, he was just another child with another ordinary name.
And that was exactly how it would remain.
For now.
By afternoon, the older children were allowed into the nursery.
They came in small groups, quiet at first, curious in the way children always were when something new appeared. Some leaned over the cribs, pointing and whispering. Others stood back, unsure if they were allowed to be there at all.
"Which one is the new baby?" a boy asked.
Mrs. Grindle pointed without looking. "By the window. Don't touch."
The children moved closer.
Thomas lay still in his crib, eyes open. He watched them approach, one by one. He did not cry. He did not smile.
A girl with braided hair frowned. "He's staring."
"He's a baby," another said. "They do that."
"He's staring hard," she replied.
One boy waved his hand in front of Thomas's face. "Hey."
Thomas followed the movement with his eyes.
The boy blinked. "Okay. That's creepy."
"It's not creepy," the girl said, though she took a step back. "He's just… quiet."
A younger child leaned over the crib rail. "Why isn't he sleeping?"
"Maybe he doesn't like us," someone said.
Thomas continued to watch them. His face showed no emotion, but his gaze lingered, steady and calm.
"Well, I don't like him either," the boy said, straightening. "He looks like he's judging me."
A few of the children laughed.
"He's a baby," the girl said again, though she laughed too. "What could he be judging?"
Thomas blinked once.
The laughter faded.
A baby in the next crib began to cry loudly. One of the children flinched. Thomas did not react. The crying continued for a moment, then slowly softened and stopped.
The children glanced at one another.
"That's weird," someone whispered.
"It's a coincidence," the girl said quickly. "Babies cry all the time."
Mrs. Grindle clapped her hands once. "All right. That's enough. Back to the playroom."
The children backed away, some more eagerly than others. One boy looked over his shoulder as he left.
"I still think he's strange," he muttered.
Thomas watched them go.
When the nursery door closed, the room felt quieter than before. Not silent—just calmer.
Thomas lay in his crib, eyes open, breathing slow and steady.
Night came slowly.
The orphanage quieted in stages. Lamps were turned low. Doors were closed halfway. Footsteps faded until only the soft sounds remained—breathing, the wind outside, the old building settling into itself.
Thomas lay awake.
The nursery was dim, lit only by a small lamp near the door. Shadows stretched across the walls, long and thin. The other babies slept, their breathing uneven, their dreams unknown.
Outside, the wind moved through the trees.
Something stood beyond the orphanage fence.
It did not move at first.
From a distance, it might have looked like a shadow cast by the moon, tall and still. Anyone passing by would have thought nothing of it. There was no sound. No light. No sign of anything unusual.
The figure watched the building.
Its gaze rested on one window longer than the others.
Inside, Thomas turned his head slightly.
His eyes focused on the dark glass.
He did not cry. He did not stir. He only watched, as if looking at something familiar he could not yet remember.
The figure shifted once, barely noticeable, then stepped back into the deeper shadows. It did not come closer. It did not leave a trace.
A caretaker made her final round for the night. She paused briefly at the nursery door, looking in.
Her eyes lingered on Thomas's crib.
For a moment, she felt uneasy. Not afraid—just unsure. As if she had forgotten something important.
She shook her head. "Just tired," she whispered to herself.
The lamp dimmed.
Outside, the shadow was gone.
Thomas lay still in the dark, eyes open, breathing slow and steady.
Above him, unseen and unknown, fate waited patiently.