The 8-year-old girl sat on the sidewalk curb, streaks of gray dust lining her dangly legs, her tiny torso covered in a tattered shirt that flowed over her torn-up shorts.

Brown curls hung to her shoulders and her thin white arms wrapped around her bent knees as she tapped her bare feet rhythmically on the cold rough ground. A circle of pictures surrounded her dainty body. Pictures of people smiling, and pictures of them frowning; pictures of animals cuddling, eating, playing; pictures of exotic locations and local statues; pictures of food from dozens of different countries. Some were large and others were small—so small actually that they were hardly large enough for her to recognize the objects within the frozen images. Vibrant magazine cutouts were mixed in with the colorful pictures and black and white snapshots. And every day, at exactly noon, she would step outside the orphanage into the congested Chicago air, and plop down, looking over her photos, and organize them into a neat, clean pile, and then spread them all over the ground once more, and her blue eyes would not look up until the sun set. Then she would run her right hand to the left, and spin in a circle, gathering all of her photos into a pile and placing them in her shirt, folding it over to ensure that none were lost as she ventured back inside the orphanage. In October, the sun set sooner, so she would sit in the spot where the last glimmer of sun danced before it disappeared into the West, trying to use every last moment of light before the night emerged.

She had been left, nameless, unidentified, on the front steps of the orphanage as an infant, a purple blanket wrapped tightly around her wriggling body in the crisp November air. A few stitches of thread had pinned the blanket shut and her hand grasped a photo of a blooming fall tree, with hundreds of orange and yellow leaves scattered beneath the enormous mahogany branches. As soon as she could walk, she would totter out the front door and onto the cement, carrying the photo of the wrinkled majestic tree in her right hand. There she would plop down and stare at the tree, tracing the colors with a tiny index finger, and rubbing the smooth surface against her cheek, interrupted only by a shrieking Miss Verity who would only notice her absence three hours after she had gone. Miss Verity had grown tired of “chasing after this miscreant” and decided to put up a metal gate about 10 feet high around the front entrance of the building, leaving about 5 yards of ground between the gate and the front door on each side of the building.

The orphan had never spoken to any of the other children or the workers inside, and her only interactions with people occurred when she traded the donated Christmas shirt and shorts for pictures or clip-outs of images people carried with them. In fact, no one in the orphanage had ever heard her voice, and they only witnessed her smile when she glanced downwards, submerged in her pictures. Despite her bouncy curls and crystal blue eyes, most of the couples avoided her, shaking their heads in pity as they passed her bent over on the sidewalk. “Poor girl… wish there was something we could do,” a woman would mutter as her husband squeezed her hand in response. “Don’t worry, honey. We are here to help.” But when they adopted, they purposely discarded her image into the back of their minds, choosing the giggling toddler or energetic kid instead.

Around April of her 8th year, Peter’s junior class decided that visiting an orphanage would be a great addition to any college application. Most of the students started visiting the Chicago Orphan Asylum once a week, some more and most less, all choosing a favorite child, asking the typical questions, and bringing the expected charity toys. Peter had seen her sitting on the sidewalk outside, and had never made it into the orphanage. He sat down before her and smiled, unperturbed by her refusal to recognize his presence. He sat with her for hours, watched her peruse her photos even after his friends left, noticed which photos made her smile and which made her raise her eyebrows, sat in front of her silently until the sun set, and helped her gather her photos when she decided to go back inside. Only then, as Peter’s hand made contact with a picture, did she look up. Peter smiled, lifted the picture and handed it to her. She grinned, took the picture, placed it back on the uncovered cement where it once lay, and with one swooping motion of her right hand, she twirled, gathered her pictures, and sprang up, running inside. Peter remained sitting for a moment, ran his hand through his short black hair, and then went home.

The next day, Peter returned after class, sat down in front of her and watched her soar through her photos, watched her run her fingers over the colors, watched her lift the picture of the black-and-white couple on their wedding day. His eyes followed the path of the tear that crept down her cheek, disappearing into her dirty shirt. She let the trail dry on its own, keeping her hands dry and clean. Her hands were so clean, in fact, that to Peter they seemed a shade whiter than the rest of her skin, glowing as she arranged and rearranged her images.

Peter returned to her every day for three months, ditching his friends when they went to the movies and ignoring his mother’s voicemails demanding he return home for a family lunch. During summer, Peter usually spent time at home, entertaining his parents, who never tired of philosophical discussions and museum exhibits, and wishing he had siblings. He wanted a big family, big brothers to wrestle with and teach him about girls, kid sisters who got into his room and messed up his stuff, siblings to play with and yell at and be with when the house felt large and empty and dull.

In August, the orphan began to greet Peter with a bright smile on his daily visits. When Miss Verity opened the orphanage gates for him, mumbling that he was “wasting his time with this one… she’s a lost cause,” Peter would turn his head, pass right by her and sit in front of his favorite orphan rolling his eyes dramatically as Miss Verity marched back inside with a disgruntled, “I tried to warn you.” Peter brought the orphan photos and cutouts from magazines, books, and newspapers, telling her which images he liked and which he did not care for, and feeling the chills down his spine when she lifted the images he brought her and explored each one passionately, squeezing his hand in thanks every time she found one that truly intrigued her.

One cutout had been an advertisement for a bottle of perfume, named Fantasia. The orphan had liked this cutout so much that she spent an entire day staring at it, only splitting its time to explore the image of the majestic fall tree that she always returned to before going inside. The advertisement was an image of a dark night, filled only with the light of stars, and the brightest ones spelling out the name of the perfume. She traced the letters again and again and again, squeezing Peter’s hand in joyful delight in between each tracing, until Peter asked her if she wanted to be called Fantasia. Her blue eyes widened, a smile exploded across her face, and Peter began to call her Fantasia. By October, Peter had shortened it to Tasia.

Peter’s family and friends started to worry. He spent most of his free time at the orphanage with Tasia, and the rest of it taking pictures he thought she might enjoy. He spent cold fall nights lying outside in the utter dark trying to take pictures of the stars in the sky. Peter’s mother grew anxious by his constant absence from home, but he had grown so much happier in the last couple of months. She needed to understand why. One day she went to the orphanage before Peter arrived and asked Miss Verity if she could watch them from a window. Miss Verity consented as she scorned Tasia’s “odd mannerisms and unnatural nature.” Peter’s mother nodded politely as Verity spoke and secretly ignored the mumbling criticisms. She watched Tasia from Miss Verity’s window upstairs for a couple of hours, intrigued by the young girl’s dedication as she thumbed through her pictures alone. The orphan seemed so tiny and weak, her body arched painfully and her mouth contorted into a wavering frown. But as soon as Peter approached the gate, Tasia’s head snapped upwards, her curls cascading down her back, and she lifted her right hand to capture and squeeze Peter’s as he sat down beside her. Tasia lifted some of her photos, showed them to Peter and he laughed at their own private jokes. Peter’s mother watched in astounded silence as her son melted into a big brother, tucking in Tasia’s shirt tag that stuck out, and giving her some chocolate candies that he unwrapped for her first. When the sun set, Tasia gathered her photos, Peter rose, lifted her up and twirled her around before he set her down again. She rubbed her cheek to his hand, and ran inside.

For the next couple of weeks, Peter’s mother worked hard. She told her husband of her idea, brought him along to witness them interacting when he did not initially agree with it, and spent days on the necessary paperwork to get everything done. Then, one day in late October, she told Peter. He was so shocked he sat in a stunned silence, but an enormous smile covered his face.

The next day, on the first of November, Peter ran to the orphanage right after school, ready to pick up his new little sister. When he got there, officers paraded in and out of the orphanage, carrying clipboards and wearing dumbfounded expressions. Tasia was not on the sidewalk. Miss Verity sat on the front steps, the only calm expression in a sea of chaos. Peter approached Miss Verity anxiously.

“Miss Verity… What’s going on? Where is Tasia? I’m here to take her home.”
“She’s gone.”
“What do you mean? Where the hell is she?”
She did not respond.
“Miss Verity?”
“We can’t find her… Like she just disappeared…”
“I don’t understand.”
“I told her last night that you were adopting her… She didn’t say anything, OBVIOUSLY, but leapt up from the ground, gathered up all her dumb photos, folded them up in her dirty shirt, and sat on her bed. I asked her if she was planning on staying awake all night and she just smiled all goofily and nodded. But when I woke up this morning and went to her room, she was gone. The cops are starting a city-wide search for her.”

Peter did not respond. He went inside, followed the officers to Tasia’s bed, and sat on the hard mattress. He put his legs up, wrapped his arms around them, and rocked back and forth. He stopped only when he saw the photos on the edge of the bed. Tasia’s pictures sat there, an enormous pile of images that had tipped over displaying the palette of colors and glossy surfaces that captured the rippling light in the room. Blocking out the officers that entered and exited, the orphans that sprinted in and out continuing their regular playtime activities, and Miss Verity’s statements to the police declaring that Tasia had always been “a bit of freak”, Peter took the pictures and left the room. He heard his mother’s voice talking to an officer inside, his father’s disgruntled sigh, but Peter continued walking until he was out the door and had shut it behind him. He sat on the cement, spread the images in a circle around him, and looked at each one. Hours past, the sun had set, and Peter had looked at every one of Tasia’s photos except for one that was he noticed was missing. When his parents came outside, Peter’s mother rubbed his head and told him to come inside before he got sick. He shrugged her off. They went back inside, but Peter could not. In one swoop, he gathered up all the images, making an enormous, neat pile, and leaving only one to the side.

He lifted the image with the majestic tree, and let his eyes roam the image, exploring the orange and yellow leaves as they cascaded to the ground. He explored the emerald green trees in the background, felt the warmth of the golden sun that made them sparkle in the photo, soaked in the violently blue cloudless sky. And then he noticed it. There, beneath the largest branch, the branch that leaned closest to the ground, a tiny figure rested. Peter lifted the picture, brought it closer to his eyes, trying frantically to remember if anyone was in this picture the last time he’d seen it. He took out his phone, opened it, and focused the light onto the photo. A tiny girl with coffee brown hair sat beneath the golden leaves, her head cocked back in evident delight as a yellow leaf rested right above her nose’s embrace. She wore a clean gray shirt, and untorn denim shorts, and in her right hand rested a dark piece of paper that had Fantasia written on it in almost undecipherable small writing. The girl’s right hand in the picture seemed to glow as she reached up pointing to the sun that remained frozen perfectly above her in the cerulean sky. Peter’s left hand cupped his mouth as he shut his eyes and shook his head roughly. But when he opened his eyes, the little girl remained in the picture. He inhaled deeply, smiled, and as he kissed the photo’s surface he saw the girl’s head move toward him and one twinkling blue eye gave him a happy wink.