Anaya stood beside her suitcase, her soft brown eyes lingering on the yellow ribbon. She pressed it gently between her palms, feeling its silkiness—a last bright fragment from her mother. The house felt emptier than ever, shadows stretching across the walls as she waited for the social worker’s knock. When the door finally opened, she picked up her suitcase without a word, the ribbon wrapped tightly around her fingers.
Anaya stepped through the door, her suitcase bumping gently against her leg. Children darted by, their faces bright and noisy, but she remained quiet—watching, listening. She was shown to a room with plain sheets and a window overlooking the playground. As she unpacked, she tied the yellow ribbon around her wrist, a silent promise. That night, she whispered "I’m still here." into the darkness, the ribbon glowing faintly against her skin.
Anaya learned to fold laundry perfectly, her fingers nimble and precise. She tied shoes for the younger children, swept floors, and helped quietly wherever needed. Families always chose the youngest or the loudest; no one saw the quiet girl with the ribbon. At night, she sat by her window, the moon casting silver shadows, and murmured "I’m still here." Useful, she thought, wasn’t the same as wanted.
Mr. Ravi moved quietly, dipping his brush into bright colors. Anaya lingered near the doorway, watching him work. He noticed her, asking "You don’t like playing?" She replied "I like watching." He handed her a brush, inviting her to join him. For the first time, she felt welcome, the walls shifting with every stroke.
