“I’m Rose,” I replied with a smile, trying to look confident even though my hands were sweating.

“That’s a nice name,” the man said, his voice calm and deep. “How long have you been here?”

I blinked. Weird question. Don’t they usually check our files before coming? What else does he want to know?

“Well… I don’t really know, sir,” I said slowly. “But I think I’ve been here since birth.”

He nodded like he already expected that answer, then leaned back in his chair. “Alright, Rose. Go call your Miss, please.”

I stood, confused but obedient, and went out the door. Miss was waiting right outside like a snake that had been eavesdropping the whole time.

“He said he’s done speaking with me,” I muttered.

“Oh, good!” she chirped with that sugar-coated voice of hers. Then she turned back to him. “Shall we start with the signing, sir? Or would you like a moment—or a few days—before we proceed?”

Her tone dripped with kindness, but I knew better. If she could sell me to the black market and buy herself a new wig, she’d do it without blinking.

While they spoke, I stood quietly at the far end of the room near the door, pretending not to listen but catching every word.

“Well,” Mr. Thomas said, “how long does it take to finalize the adoption papers?”

“Oh, it doesn’t take long,” Miss replied with a greedy smile. “Thirty minutes of your time will do.”

“Then let’s go on with it,” he said simply.

I returned to my seat, thinking the conversation was over, but before I could even sit, Miss turned toward me. “Rose, go upstairs and get your bags ready.”

That caught me off guard. It was happening. I was actually leaving this place.

I didn’t waste time. I jogged up the stairs, passing a few kids on the way. Their eyes followed me, wide and full of questions. Some looked jealous, others just curious. Maybe they already knew I was getting adopted. Maybe they were just waiting to see if I’d look back. I didn’t.

I opened the door to my small, creaky room. My bed looked messier than usual, books scattered around. I grabbed my old bag and started stuffing clothes inside. No folding, no order—just panic and excitement mixed into one big rush.

After a few minutes, the zipper refused to close. I hissed under my breath and sat on the bag, forcing it down until it finally zipped up halfway.

“Ugh, stupid bag,” I muttered.

I got up, checked my little shelf again to make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything.

Shoes—check.

Clothes—check.

Toothbrush—check.

Phone—check.

Charger—check.

That was everything.

I gave the room one last glance. I’d always said I hated it here, but standing in that doorway, I felt a tiny ache in my chest. Maybe because this was all I’d ever known.

“Good riddance,” I whispered anyway and dragged my bag out.

By the time I reached the stairs, Mr. Thomas was already waiting at the bottom. Hands in his pockets, calm as ever, watching me. I gave him a polite smile, then kept dragging the bag, the wheels squeaking loudly against the wooden steps.

When I got closer, he gestured for me to stop. “Let me take that.”

Before I could protest, he lifted the bag with one hand like it weighed nothing. My jaw nearly dropped. That thing had almost broken my arms a minute ago.

He nodded toward the door. “Let’s go.”

Outside, the night air hit my face—cool and sharp. For the first time, I felt… free. Then my eyes caught his car, and I swear my mouth fell open. It was sleek, shiny, and way too clean for this dusty neighborhood. I didn’t know much about cars, but this one screamed money.

Mr. Thomas opened the front passenger door for me. “Hop in.”

I climbed in carefully, trying not to touch anything like I’d break it. The leather seats smelled expensive—like fresh polish and something woodsy.

He walked around and slid into the driver’s seat. As he started the engine, it purred to life—smooth and powerful. I was still looking around like a five-year-old seeing a spaceship for the first time.

“Rose, put on your seatbelt,” he said without looking at me.

“Oh! Sorry, sir.” I fumbled with the belt until it clicked.

We pulled away from the foster home, and I didn’t look back. Not once.

The road stretched long and empty, lined with trees that blurred past as we drove. I watched them silently for a while, counting each one just to stay awake. The hum of the engine and the soft rhythm of the tires almost made me doze off.

I wanted to check my phone, but it felt rude. I barely knew the man. So I just stared out the window, bored, until my mouth decided to move on its own.

“Are we there yet, sir?” I asked, resting my head against the window.

“Not even close, dear,” he replied, his eyes still on the road. “But if you’re tired, you could recline your seat and take a nap. You must be exhausted.”

“I am tired, sir, but I don’t wanna sleep.” I paused, then asked the first thing that came to mind. “What do you do, sir?”

He chuckled softly. “I’m a retired soldier.”

I swallowed hard. A soldier? Great. I just got adopted by a man who probably owned more guns than spoons.

“Do you want me to tell you a story from my days in service?” he asked, a spark lighting up his eyes.

People always loved talking about the things they were proud of. And I wasn’t about to kill the mood.

“Yes, sir. I’d love that.”

He smiled, one of those rare, genuine smiles that made him look younger for a second.

“When I was in high school,” he began, “I was about your age. It was my final year, and they told us to choose what we wanted to become—what college we wanted to apply to.”

“Yeah?” I said, trying to sound interested. “Was it hard choosing? Because for me, it’s always hard. I nearly got a migraine trying to pick subjects once.”

He laughed lightly. “No, not for me. I already knew what I wanted—to serve my country.”

There they go again, I thought. Always serving the country. Same patriotic story.

He continued, “My parents were against it. They said being a soldier was reckless. That they didn’t pay my tuition so I could go out there and die in uniform.” He chuckled again, as if remembering something bittersweet.

“Awwn, that must’ve hurt,” I said softly. “What did you do?”

“I went anyway,” he said simply. “I took the entrance exams, went through training… it was brutal. There were nights I almost gave up. But I kept pushing. You should’ve seen the drills—they were no joke.”

“I heard military training is hell,” I said. “But I guess it’s their choice, right?”

“Some choose it,” he said quietly. “But not everyone gets a choice.”

That caught my attention. “What do you mean?”

He glanced at me, then back at the road. “Some people are… recruited. Forced, even. But you’d be surprised—the ones who don’t choose it often last longer.”

“Wait—people get forced into the military?”

“Sometimes,” he said simply, voice calm but distant, like he was talking from memory. “Those ones have something different in them. A reason to survive.”

The car fell silent again. No music, no radio. Just the hum of the tires on the asphalt.

I stared out the window, the sky turning darker as we moved farther from the city lights. Something about what he said gave me a weird chill.

I yawned and looked back at him. “Are we there yet, sir?”

He smiled faintly, glancing at the rearview mirror.

“Yes,” he said. “You just asked right in time.”