The soft light of dawn crept through the cracked windows of St. Joseph’s Orphanage, painting faint golden streaks across the faded floors. Amélie Rose Parker, now fifteen, sat silently on the edge of her bunk bed, clutching a small worn satchel. Her heart raced, but her eyes—those steady hazel-green eyes—were calm and determined. Beside her, little Julien, still half-asleep, rubbed his bright green eyes and whispered, “Are we really leaving, Amie?”

She nodded gently, brushing his sandy-blond curls aside. “Yes, sweetheart. Before they wake up.”

It was Friday morning—the perfect day to escape. Every Friday, the headmistress and matrons gathered in the east wing for their weekly meeting. It was the one time the orphanage’s halls were left unguarded, its noise replaced by silence. For weeks, Amélie had studied their movements, memorized every creak of the floorboards and every door that stayed unlocked.

She lifted a small canvas wrapped in cloth from under her bed—one of her last paintings, a sunlit meadow her mother once described to her in bedtime stories. She had painted it during the nights when she couldn’t sleep, pouring every memory, every ache, and every hope into the strokes. “This one will help us,” she whispered, tucking it carefully into her bag along with some pencils and an old paintbrush.

Hand in hand, they slipped through the dim corridor, the faint sound of laughter from the meeting room echoing behind them. By the time anyone noticed, Amélie and Julien were already several blocks away, walking quickly through the crowded streets of downtown Brooklyn. The air smelled of bread and car fumes, the city alive with movement.

By noon, hunger gnawed at them. Julien tugged her sleeve. “Amie, I’m hungry.”

Amélie glanced down at the wrapped canvas. Maybe it was time. She spotted a small art shop at the corner of an alley—its sign barely hanging, paint faded. Inside, a man in his thirties hunched over an easel, brush in hand, his shirt stained with colors.

“Excuse me,” she said softly, stepping in. “Would you buy my painting?”

The man—Luca Marino—looked up, startled by her mature tone. He studied the canvas she handed him. His brows lifted. “You painted this?”

She nodded.

He glanced at her worn shoes, the small boy clinging to her hand, and sighed. “Where are your parents, do they know that you are selling this painting?”

When she didn’t reply, he smiled faintly. “Alright. I’ll buy it—and I’ll make you an offer. You can paint here, use the small office room in the back. I’ll sell your work. I take sixty percent; you take forty. Deal?”

Amélie’s eyes widened. “You mean… we can stay?”

Luca nodded. “At least until you find your place in the world.”

For the first time in years, Amélie smiled—and it wasn’t out of politeness. It was hope.