My name is Elena, and when I was eight years old, I made my little sister a promise I was far too young to understand.“I’ll find you,” I told her. “No matter what.”For the next thirty-two years, I believed I had failed.Mia and I grew up in an orphanage where the walls were always scuffed, the lights too bright, and the beds lined up as if someone had measured childhood and decided it belonged in rows. We didn’t have parents to miss in the usual way. No framed photographs. No stories about who we resembled. No comforting lie that someone would come back for us one day. We had a thin file, a few sentences, and adults who told us to be grateful we were fed.But we had each other.

Mia followed me everywhere. If I went to the dining hall, she stayed at my side. If I walked down the hallway to brush my teeth, her small hand latched onto mine. If she woke up at night and couldn’t see me, she cried until someone carried her to my bed, where she curled against me as if that was where she belonged.I learned early how to take care of her. I learned to braid her hair without a comb, fingers patient through knots. I learned how to sneak an extra bread roll and hide it in my pocket for later. I learned which adults softened if you smiled, and which ones only did if you stayed silent.We didn’t dream about big things. We didn’t talk about careers or futures. Our dream was smaller, sharper, more urgent.