Orphanage.
How could Ian not be familiar with it?
It was the place where he had grown up—the Wool's Orphanage.
A drab gray building on the outskirts of London, its walls mottled and peeling, several windowpanes cracked and patched over with old newspapers. And within this scene.
London's characteristic dreary rain cast everything in a damp gray veil. At the center of the image, a boy of about seven or eight stood before a glass window clouded with condensation.
He wore the orphanage-issued gray shirt, washed so often that it had faded white. It was clearly a size too large, its sleeves rolled up several times before his wrists were exposed. Wet black hair clung to his forehead. His features were delicate but pale, carrying the frailty of malnutrition. The boy's nose was nearly pressed against the cold glass. His warm breath formed a small patch of mist on the window, which he unconsciously smeared with his finger.
There they were.
Outside, in the orphanage's tiny courtyard, seven or eight children were playing in the rain. They wore the same gray clothes, yet their running and laughter made them seem full of life. They chased a battered leather ball, splashing mud over their trouser legs, but no one cared. An older girl shouted something, and all the children ran toward her, gathering into a circle. Their laughter came faintly through the blurred glass.
But the boy by the window had not been invited.
He simply stood there, motionless, his nose against the glass as he watched those children. There were no tears in his eyes, no pleading—only an emotion far too complex for someone his age.
It was longing.
An overwhelming longing to fit in, to be accepted, to be seen.
At the same time, it was anger.
Anger at