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“I’llcall you,”Ipromise. “Everyday.”
Isabellaughs. “Youbetter.AndVal...be careful out there.Youknow how dangerous it can be.”
Iswallow the lump in my throat. “Iwill.”
“Goon, then.I’lljoin you and the others as soon asI’mdone writing.”
Beforestepping out of the room, there’s a soft knock on the door before it creaks open.SisterMariapokes her head in, herkind eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiles. “Valeria, dear, we have a little something for you in the common room.”
Iforce a smile. “I’llbe there in a minute,”Ireply.Shenods and closes the door behind her.
Theidea of sitting through some awkward, half-hearted celebration makes my stomach twist.Theymake such a fuss about celebrating our eighteenth birthday, like it’s a new era, like we’re being reborn.Theirony isn’t lost on me.
Iclose my eyes and take a deep breath, steadying myself.Idon’t want to be ungrateful.Thesisters here have been kind, in their own way, especially given that no one adopted me.Idon’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved, honestly.I’velived here for what feels like a lifetime—years of mundane, monotonous existence, just counting down the days untilIcould finally leave.Thethought of freedom always kept me going, a distant light at the end of this long, dark tunnel.Though, now that it’s here,I’mnot sure what to do with it.
AsIhead toward the common area,Ican’t help but think ofCamila.It’sfunny—Iused to see butterflies all the time.They’dflutter around the garden in the summer like little pieces of the sun.Butsince she left, it’s as if the butterflies disappeared too.
Butterfliesare supposed to symbolize rebirth.Butwhat happens when they’re gone?
Idispel those thoughts whenIenter the room, decorated with streamers and balloons, all in shades of pink and purple.Asmall cake sits on the table, the frosting a bright, cheerful yellow.Theother girls are gathered around, smiling and chatting, but their eyes keep flicking to me.SisterMariahands me a small box wrapped in plain paper, her smile a little too hopeful.
“HappyBirthday,Valeria,” she says, pressing the gift into my hands.
“Thankyou,”Isay softly, trying to sound sincere.Ipeel back the wrapper, revealing a small, delicate butterfly pin.Iswallow hard, my throat tightening asItrace the shape with my fingers.
“It’sbeautiful.”It’sthe first giftI’veever received that feels like it means something—but it’s also a reminder of everythingI’velost.
Weeat cake, andIforce myself to participate, to smile and laugh.Thefrosting is too sweet, soIpush the plate away after a few bites.TheSisterschatter on about the future, about how this is the start of a new life, a new chapter, but allIcan think about is getting out of here, of leavingGloomwoodbehind and never looking back.
Oncethe celebration is over,Igrab my bag and sling it over my shoulder.Everyonegathers at the front door to see me off with hugs and well wishes.Inod and smile, feeling likeI’mplaying a part in a playIdidn’t want to be cast in.
“Takecare of yourself,Valeria,”Isabelsays, her arms wrapping around me.
“Iwill,”Isay, squeezing her back.Igive her one last smile beforeIstep out into the cool afternoon air.
Thegate clicks shut behind me, andIfeel a mix of emotions—relief, fear, anticipation.Istand there for a moment, glimpsing at the world beyond the orphanage walls.It’sstrange how the sky seems a little brighter, the air a little fresher.
Itake a deep breath, adjusting the strap of my bag, and start walking.Idon’t look back, not once.Ihave a new life to find, and with it,Camila.She’sout there somewhere, and now thatI’mfree,I’llfind her.
Andmaybe, just maybe,I’llfind the butterflies again too.
Afew monthslater
Ihear a knock on the door, a soft but eager rhythm that could only belong toIsabel.Myheart races asIrush to open it—and there stands my best friend on the other side of the threshold.
“Valeria,” she says, stepping into my small apartment.Thespace already feels different with her in it, warmer somehow, despite its cramped quarters.
Isabellooks around, taking in the tiny living room that doubles as a kitchen, the lone mattress on the floor that serves as my bed.It’snot much, but it’s allI’vegot, and now, it’s ours.Ican see the questions in her eyes, the unspoken concerns about how we’re going to make this work.
“Ican’t believeI’mfinally here,” she murmurs.
IsabelandIhaven’t seen each other in seven months.Wekept in touch as best as we could, but it wasn’t the same.Isabelwas stuck at the orphanage, waiting for the day she’d turn eighteen so she could join me.AndIwas here, in this small apartment, trying to figure out how to survive.
Onher birthday,Isabelpacked up what little she had and made her way toEbonridge.Thatwas two days ago.
Isqueeze her hand. “We’llfigure it out, like we always do.”
AfterIsabelsettles in, we decide to treat ourselves to some takeout—our first meal together in months.Sittingon the two bean bags that create our makeshift couch in the tiny living room,Ifinally tell her everything about my search forCamila.
