Sadhan abid

Whispers of the Lost Child

The wind stirred softly through the cracked windows of St. Elora’s Orphanage, bringing with it the faint scent of pine and distant rain. The children had long since fallen asleep in their narrow beds, but Amara lay wide-eyed, her fingers tracing the worn edges of a photograph she kept hidden beneath her pillow. The photo was faded—just a woman in a wide-brimmed hat and a small girl in pigtails, smiling at something beyond the frame. No names, no date. Just a whisper of a life before the silence began.