It is strange, how time weaves its threads in a way that even the most vivid memories fade into the darkness, as if they were mere shadows cast by the light of a forgotten past. I sit here now, at the desk—my desk—at the orphanage, looking around at the empty halls and the desolate rooms that have been my world for so long. My name is Lucas, though that, too, seems like a distant thing. I have forgotten the sound of it when spoken by others. I have forgotten how it feels to be part of something, to belong.
Five years ago, I was just a child like all the others—full of hope, full of dreams, unaware of the cold truth that life, for someone like me, was little more than a series of passing faces. We were the forgotten ones, the castaways of a world that had no place for us. But even so, there were those fleeting moments of joy, those moments when we all laughed and played, when the orphanage didn’t feel so cold, so empty.
Now, I am alone. I am the only orphan left in the orphanage.
The walls, which once echoed with the sounds of laughter and the childish clamor of games, now stand silent—broken, barren, as if the very structure of the place is mourning the loss of what it used to be. My friends, those faces that once filled the space with warmth, are all gone. Each of them, one by one, taken away by strangers who called them “sons” or “daughters,” leaving me to fade into the forgotten recesses of this place.
And yet, I remain here. Alone. Time passes, and no one comes. The years stretch out before me like an endless road leading nowhere, a path that grows darker with each passing day. The orphanage is now a mere shell of what it once was—no longer a home, but a mausoleum for the memories of what could have been.
Today, something has changed. The air, thick with the scent of dust and the passage of time, feels different. There is an unease that has settled into my bones, an unfamiliar tension that prickles the skin. From the window, I see men—strangers—moving in and out of the front doors with grim efficiency. Their faces are impassive, their hands carrying with them the last remnants of life that once filled this place.
They are here to take it all away. The furniture, the toys, the trinkets that once held the memories of my friends—of my life. It is all being carted off like so much refuse, discarded without a second thought. A van idles outside, its back door wide open, ready to receive whatever has been deemed unimportant, useless. The men move with mechanical precision, hauling away the things I once held dear, the very things that connected me to a time when I was not just an orphan, but a child with a future.
My favorite chair, the one that creaked under the weight of too many years, is lifted with indifferent hands and dragged toward the van. It was here I spent countless hours, listening to the stories my friends told as we huddled together for warmth in the cold of winter. And here, in this very room, I played games with them, pretending to be knights and adventurers, the world outside forgotten as we built our own. That chair—worn and battered though it was—held within it the echoes of their laughter, their voices. But now, it is nothing more than a piece of old wood and fabric, destined to be dumped into the cavernous maw of the junk removal van.
I watch in silence as the last remnants of my past are carried away. The old wooden table, scratched and scarred, where we had eaten our meals together, is now being dragged across the floor. It too will soon be gone, reduced to a pile of splinters and dust. The toys we once played with, now abandoned and useless, are thrown into boxes like things unworthy of any thought or care. Even the pictures on the walls—the faces of the children who once lived here, who once made this place feel like home—are being ripped from their frames and discarded like trash.
And yet, as I sit here in the growing silence, a part of me feels a strange sense of relief. It is not the relief of closure, but the relief of the end. It is as if the taking of these things—these objects, these fragments of memories—marks the final death of what this place once was. The orphanage, once a sanctuary for the lost, is now reduced to nothing but a hollow shell, as empty and barren as the heart that has remained here, waiting for a life that never came.
I stand from the desk, the only thing left in this room that holds any significance, and walk to the window. The men continue their work, unloading the remnants of a life that once held meaning. I wonder what will become of me once they are gone. Will I, too, be cast aside, forgotten like all the things that once defined me? Will I be left to rot in this place until the building itself crumbles into nothingness?
Or perhaps—perhaps it is better this way. Perhaps it is time to let go of the past. To let the junk removal men take it all—the furniture, the toys, the memories—and leave nothing behind but the bare walls of a future that remains unwritten. After all, what is memory but a pile of discarded objects, each one a remnant of something that no longer exists? And what is an orphan, but a child whose life is merely the debris of a world that has no place for him?
The men leave. Their van, now filled with the last traces of life in this orphanage, pulls away, disappearing down the road. The silence returns, but it is different now, heavier. I stand there in the center of the room, surrounded by nothing but the empty space where once there was life.
For a moment, I think of the others. My friends. Their faces, though fading, still linger in my mind. But as quickly as the thought comes, it vanishes, replaced by something else—a realization. It doesn’t matter. They are gone. I am the last.
And so I sit back at the desk, where I had sat so many times before, staring at the blank walls and listening to the echoes of a past that no longer exists. The memories are gone, taken away, just like the rest of it. And in their place is nothing but silence.
I think perhaps that, in the end, we are all just forgotten things—like the discarded furniture, like the toys, like the people we once were—waiting for someone to take us away.
And, perhaps, that is how it should be.
I sit still, my gaze fixed on the emptiness around me, as the last remnants of my past are swallowed by the void.
