Chapter 2 The Orphanage

Years passed, and Zazriel grew into a bright, spirited child. The orphanage walls, once gray and imposing, became her whole world, softened by the warmth of the sisters and her eagerness to learn. She had a knack for making others laugh and a curious mind that kept her bustling around St. Haven's with a broom as big as she was or a pail of water sloshing behind her, always eager to help. She never complained, never grumbled-even the smallest chores filled her with delight.

But Zazriel's boundless joy wasn't shared by everyone. Among the other children, one stood apart, casting a darker shadow over Zazriel's light: Elza. Older by a year or two, Elza had always been a storm of her own-tall, proud, with sharp eyes that rarely softened. She had a way of finding Zazriel's weak spots, slipping in small insults or snatching the things Zazriel cherished most, tainting the peace Zazriel worked so hard to build.

"Why do you always wear that flower in your hair?" Elza sneered one afternoon, snatching at the small lavender bloom Zazriel had carefully pinned near her ear. "It's dead, just like you should be. Forgotten."

Zazriel's face fell as Elza laughed, waving the flower in the air just out of reach. Elza's words cut deep, but Zazriel stood her ground.

"The sisters told me Zazriel is a flower that blooms even when the world forgets," she said, lifting her chin. "So I wear it to remind myself."

"Oh, stop with the silly stories. You think you're special, don't you?" Elza's eyes narrowed. "Just because Sister Miriam found you doesn't make you any different. You're just another orphan."

Zazriel's gaze dropped to her feet, feeling the sting of Elza's words like thorns. Though Sister Miriam's kindness had been her saving grace, the truth of her abandonment had always been like a quiet shadow lurking behind her. But she wasn't alone. She looked around, finding strength in the familiar walls, in the faces of the sisters who had raised her, and even in the children who laughed at her silly jokes.

"I'm different," Zazriel said softly, her voice shaking but steady. "I'm different because I choose to be kind, even when it's hard."

Elza's face twisted with a scowl, and she turned on her heel, stomping off. Zazriel watched her go, feeling both the weight and relief of her words. She wanted so badly to be loved, even by someone like Elza, but knew it wasn't in her power to change others.

That evening, as Sister Miriam helped her braid her hair, Zazriel hesitated. "Why does Elza hate me?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "Am I doing something wrong?"

Sister Miriam looked at her, her gaze warm and wise. "Sometimes, Zazriel, people carry storms inside them. It isn't always fair, but they don't know any other way. And sometimes... they see your light and don't know how to bear it."

"But... if I'm kind, won't her storm go away?" Zazriel asked, holding onto hope.

Sister Miriam paused, threading her fingers through Zazriel's hair. "Not always, my dear. But kindness plants seeds, even in the hardest soil. In time, you may not see the difference, but it's there."

Zazriel nodded, though the sadness still lingered. She would continue to greet each day with the warmth she had always known, but a new understanding settled in her. Elza's darkness wasn't something she could change, but she could face it with strength and compassion.

And so Zazriel continued to grow, her days marked by quiet acts of kindness and laughter that filled the old stone walls of the orphanage. The sisters watched her with pride, her presence a balm to their hearts, even as Elza's resentment simmered in the background. For Zazriel, each day was a chance to be a little more like her namesake: a rare flower, blooming defiantly in a forgotten place, not letting shadows dim her spirit.

One day, as she cleaned the steps leading to the main hall, she glanced up to see Elza watching her. Their eyes met, and for a brief moment, Zazriel saw something in Elza's gaze that wasn't anger or bitterness. It was a glimmer of something softer, like a bud pushing through stony ground. But just as quickly, Elza turned away, her face hardening again.

Zazriel sighed, the fleeting moment only reinforcing what Sister Miriam had said. Not every kindness bloomed quickly. But she didn't mind. She would wait, just as flowers waited for the sun to return after a long winter. Because Zazriel knew that the smallest seeds of kindness, once planted, could one day grow even in the most barren soil.