Chapter 12 – Whispers and Patterns
The days that followed were quieter, but not in a comforting way.
Thomas had learned to read silence—not the silence of peace, but of tension, of something left unsaid. He'd begun noticing patterns, inconsistencies. The orphanage always felt full of life, but when he focused, he could count names that had faded too quickly.
Where was Matteo, the boy who used to draw superheroes on every scrap of paper? What happened to Lucy, the girl with the golden braids who helped with the laundry? When had they last been seen?
There were no goodbyes. No hugs. No adoption day parties. Just... gone.
Thomas didn't ask outright—he knew better now—but he started with someone younger, someone who wouldn't notice the weight behind the question.
It was during a late afternoon in the playroom. Thomas sat near the window, sorting puzzle pieces, when Erin plopped down beside him. She was four, with an eternal runny nose and an endless supply of questions.
He let her babble for a bit before casually slipping in, "You had a brother, right? Leon?"
Erin's face lit up. "He's really good at running. One time, he jumped the big bush!"
"Do you know where he went?" Thomas asked gently.
Erin thought for a moment, scrunching her nose. "He went with grown-ups. Not Sister Mary. Not Catherine. Other people. They took him in a car. He didn't say bye. He forgot, I think."
Thomas felt the pieces clicking again, one by one.
That night, he approached Sister Mary in the hallway, helping her carry folded linens. Her hands, aged and careful, moved slowly but surely.
"Sister," he asked softly, "when kids leave, do they always get adopted?"
She didn't stop walking, but her pause was visible. A small hitch in her breath.
"Well," she said, "sometimes. Catherine handles those arrangements. I'm not always told. Some children… they go quickly, especially if the family is urgent. That's all."
He didn't press her. Her uncertainty told him more than her words.
So he began tracking it himself.
He folded a piece of notebook paper into quarters and tucked it inside the lining of his pillowcase. Each night, when the others were asleep, he'd quietly scribble a name.
Leon – 2 weeks before my birthday
Matteo – 3 months ago
Lucy – 1 month ago
Elijah – last Tuesday
He recorded what he remembered: their ages, anything he'd overheard, patterns in their looks. Blonde hair. Bright eyes. Straight teeth. Healthy skin. Sometimes exceptionally clever. Sometimes just beautiful.
They were all under ten.
It wasn't just adoption. Not if there were no goodbyes. Not if no one ever came back.
He began to time Catherine's comings and goings. She always seemed busier the day before a child disappeared. She'd take long phone calls. Sometimes she received manila envelopes or handed off small sealed folders to strangers in suits who never stayed longer than five minutes.
And always—always—there were no explanations.
Thomas kept his head down and his smile light. But inside, a storm was growing.
Something was terribly wrong in St. Theresia.
And he was next.