The sun blazed overhead, casting long shadows across the orphanage courtyard. Among the laughter and chatter of the other children, one boy sat alone beneath a gnarled tree, his presence ignored—or worse, met with disdain. His tattered clothes and unkempt hair made him stand out, not because he was special, but because he was unwanted. The other children glanced his way occasionally, their eyes filled with scorn, as if his very existence was an affront to them.
Magnus—though he didn't yet have a name—shrank under their gazes. He had long stopped trying to understand why he was treated this way. The staff at the orphanage spoke to him only, when necessary, their words sharp and dismissive. The other children avoided him, as if he carried some invisible curse. Even the animals seemed to sense his isolation, straying away whenever he approached.
One afternoon, as Magnus sat alone in the courtyard, the orphanage patron strode toward him, his expression unreadable. "You," the man barked, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. "Get up. Follow me."
Magnus scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding. He trailed behind the patron, his small frame trembling with every step. They entered the office, where a man and woman sat stiffly in chairs, their eyes cold and calculating. The patron gestured to Magnus with a dismissive wave. "This is the one. Take him if you want. He's of no use to us here."
The man—Arnold—leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "Stand straight, boy," he commanded, his voice devoid of warmth. Magnus obeyed, though his legs felt like they might give way. Arnold turned to the patron. "He's scrawny. Are you sure he's worth the trouble?"
The patron shrugged. "He's strong enough for what you need. And he's obedient. Doesn't talk back, doesn't cause trouble. He'll do as he's told."
Tracy, the woman, studied Magnus with a detached curiosity, as if he were an object rather than a child. "What's his name?" she asked, her tone indifferent.
"He doesn't have one," the patron replied. "We just call him 'boy.' Or 'it,' if we're feeling generous."
Arnold smirked, a cruel glint in his eyes. "Well, 'boy,' consider yourself lucky. You're coming with us. You'll have a roof over your head and food in your belly. But don't think for a second that this makes you one of us. You're here to serve a purpose, nothing more."
Magnus nodded silently; his throat too tight to speak. He didn't dare ask what that purpose was. He had learned long ago that questions only earned him more scorn.
The paperwork was signed quickly, the adults barely glancing at Magnus as they finalized the adoption. When it was done, Arnold gestured toward the door. "Move, boy. We don't have all day."
Magnus followed them to the car, his mind a whirlwind of fear and confusion. As they drove away from the orphanage, Tracy spoke without looking at him. "You'll address us as 'sir' and 'ma'am.' You'll do as you're told, when you're told. If you disobey, there will be consequences. Do you understand?"
"Yes, ma'am," Magnus whispered, his voice barely audible.
Arnold glanced at him in the rearview mirror, his expression hard. "Louder, boy. And sit up straight. You're not in the gutter anymore."
Magnus straightened his posture and repeated, "Yes, ma'am," his voice trembling but clearer this time.
Tracy nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Good. You'll learn quickly, or you'll regret it."
As the car sped down the road, Magnus stared out the window, his heart heavy. He had no illusions about his new life. He was no one's son, no one's family. He was a tool, a means to an end. And yet, deep down, a small spark of hope flickered—a hope that someday, somehow, he might rise above the world that had cast him aside.