Seungwan vaguely remembers a little bundle on the doorstep.

It was about time for afternoon tea. It had been drizzling slightly. No one had noticed until one of the ladies opened the door to dry the laundry, that there was a new addition to the home.

No one had noticed, because there had been no crying. Just two wide eyes peeking out from a faintly damp cloth. 

...

There's a fond memory of two stubby legs, waddling across the floor.

That same tiny bundle left on the doorstep had grown to the point she could walk all by herself, graduating much earlier than her still-crawling peers. But she was just so small for her age. It worried the caregivers.

Seungwan had been on the receiving end of such concern herself. She too had been on the smaller side of the spectrum. 

Still, she was a little older than Yerim. She'd been around a little longer, had already adjusted to life in the home, was already accustomed to the chores required of the older ones, and had learned to suppress the expectations of those around her and of her own when starry-eyed couples came to visit. It didn't feel great tying an anchor around the children's dreams of the outside world, but hope was often deadly. 

She'd watch the young ones gather around the windows as still childless grown-ups left, either because they had reconsidered or were still looking elsewhere, and how these children, on their tippy toes would eventually bring their feet down, like balloons that had popped and were plunging back down to earth. They were often silent for a brief moment, before shuffling away into different corners of the room, either to play, to read, or to get into a scuffle. They had learned, just as Seungwan had learned.

But Yerim was different. 

She had a stubborn streak that could not neither be struck down nor eased gently into the ground. She'd stay by the window, silent and staring out into the open, whether a couple had come by or not. She'd be on her feet at first, standing like a sentinel, and when her legs began to wobble, she would plop down onto the floor, her cottony pull-up cushioning her bum, for as long as the caretakers would allow her to sit there. 


...

It pricks her heart whenever she sees Yerim upset. It brings her back everytime to ruby-tinted cheeks and tear-stained carpets and exhausted eyes. 

The first time it happened, she remembers it was late. And dark. And very well past their bedtime. 

Seungwan had gotten up to pee and crept as quietly as she could past the bunk beds of sleeping children, and found the bedroom door left ajar. Through the crack, she could make out Yerim's silhouette, her shadow making her seem larger than she really was. 

Moving closer, Yerim had seemed so very much smaller. The moonlight was shining through the window panes, draping over Yerim in soft rays. She had looked incredibly dignified, despite her trembling shoulders. She wrapped herself in a ball, and when Seungwan called out softly to her, looked at her in startled defiance that soon morphed into something more vulnerable and fragile. 

It was the first time Yerim looked like a child. 

The older girl soon had her arms around her, and the toddler with moonrays on her skin, had climbed into her lap and finally, bawled. 

Her voice was so loud that the caregivers awoke, and a few of the kids peeked sleepily from behind the door at the commotion. Yet when the carers had gathered in the hallway, confused and alarmed, the girls were not met with reproach, but relief. Nothing nefarious had happened. The girls were safe. A little child had finally learned how to be just that: a little child. 

After Yerim had calmed down, she refused to be separated from Seungwan, clutching on tightly to her tattered grey t-shirt. Shooting a reassuring smile at the ladies of the home, Seungwan tucked Yerim into her bed, and together they slept, heads sharing the same pillow, the same thin blanket, and perhaps even the same dream of a warm embrace. 

...


Seungwan recalls Yerim's tiny hand in hers - when it was still so small, she could fold over her little fingers with just her palm. 

She couldn't exactly describe what this feeling was. Only that it made her feel both strong and afraid. Because she finally felt like she belonged. Not to the home, no - but to someone. To this little girl now holding her hand. 

Someone in this universe - in which she was insignificant, in which she had no place - needed her. Wanted her. Looked for her in the morning after a scary dream, and called for her at bedtime for a goodnight hug. 

Someone chose to love her, and craved for her love in return. 

And Seungwan, holding on to Yerim as they looked out at the sheer vastness of the outside world together, knew that she would give it back. She would make a place in her heart for Yerim, she'd be responsible for her, care for her, protect her, make her laugh, help her grow. Freely and willingly. She would give it all to her. 

...

Seungwan doesn't remember the last time she slept alone in her bed.

She wakes up early sometimes; an hour or two before the morning bell rings and the older ladies stream into the room to usher drowsy children out of the comfort of their blankets. 

One day, she knows she won't be here. That she'll have to find her own way outside the home, find a way to be with Yerim, to make a life for both of them somewhere, somehow. But that's something they'll tackle together when it's time. 

For now, this is enough. 

She pulls the blanket over Yerim's shoulders, now a little wider, a little stronger. She hears the younger mumble her favourite word in her sleep - the very first thing Yerim learned how to say. 

Unnie, Yerim murmurs, burrowing further into Seungwan's arms.  

Unnie's here, Seungwan murmurs back. Unnie's here.