[Age 9]
Your second year at Oak Orphanage. The Oak Family's generous funding ensured comfortable living, though Robin still wept quietly when alone with you.
She confessed nightmares about her mother, calling herself "weak" for crying—making you swear not to tell Sunday. Your secret.
You adapted to one-armed life. Your left hand regained full function through rehabilitation. Yet you never touched piano again.
"Anming..."
"Hmm?"
Under the blanket's darkness, only Robin's starry eyes glowed—indomitable hope shining through.
"When I grow up, I'll be a superstar. I'll sing your songs across the cosmos."
Anming squeezed her small hand. "Then I'll write your lyrics. Make you the greatest singer in the galaxy."
"Mmm... But I'll always be your Robin," she murmured, then hastily added, "and Brother's sister."
"Anming, do you really think I can be a star?"
"If it's you, absolutely."
Fingers intertwined, they cocooned in warmth—their tiny universe.
Then—
The blanket was yanked away.
Sunday loomed over them, face stormy. "Anming. Explain."
"Did you know?" Anming smiled serenely. "Enclosed spaces amplify vocal resonance. Like shower acoustics."
Robin peeked from behind him, nodding fervently, cheeks pink. "We were just singing, Brother!"
Sunday's blood pressure spiked. "Robin, boys and girls shouldn't—"
"Not even Anming?" Her innocent blink shattered his logic. "Aren't we family?"
Sunday choked. He never dared hug Robin like this!
"But last time," Robin pouted, "you hugged Anming. Am I not family?"
Tears welled. Sunday panicked, shoving Anming forward with a glare: DO SOMETHING!
Giggling, Robin pulled them both into a hug.
"No fighting. You're both my wings."
Sunday side-eyed Anming: Family, yes. Closer? Over my dead body.
Anming remained unbothered. They'd literally just been discussing lyrics.
[Age 10]
Your features sharpened into handsomeness, making you popular among orphans. Polite. Gentle. Yet no adoption offers came—unlike most peers, you, Robin, and Sunday remained unchosen.
Robin hated the "shopping for goods" looks. Sunday suspected the truth: they weren't allowed to be adopted.
You found letters in the headmaster's office—detailed reports about your lives, addressed to someone powerful.
"Anming, do I look pretty?"
Robin spun before the mirror in her sky-blue dress, hair cascading like liquid starlight.
"A true superstar."
"Really?" She beamed, then frowned. "Why's the headmaster dressing us up? A ball?"
"Perhaps... someone important is coming." Anming's grip tightened. No one will tarnish her light.
Sunday entered, impeccable in white suit, scowling at their closeness. "We're late."
"Brother~ Girls need time to prepare!" Robin skipped to him, Anming in tow.
"Sunday," Anming chided, "be a gentleman."
Sunday's eye twitched. That face—that damnably perfect face!
True, Anming loved Robin beyond her beauty. But what if she fell for his looks?