Wool’s Orphanage stands gray and grim against the overcast London sky, its windows like tired eyes staring out at nothing. Rain streaks down the glass, blurring the world beyond into a wash of muted colors.

You stand at the window of the dormitory you’ve shared with seven other girls for as long as you can remember. Behind you, the room is quiet for once—most of them are downstairs for lunch, the clatter of tin plates and the low murmur of Mrs. Cole’s voice drifting up through the floorboards.

A hand brushes yours. Light. Brief.