It was raining again. Not like before—this wasn't the kind of rain that whispered. This one had teeth. It came down harder, faster, slapping against the windows and overflowing the crooked gutters. The porch roof leaked. The floorboards creaked. Somewhere near the south hallway, a draft slipped through the wall and made the curtains shudder like ghosts.
I liked this kind less. The cat didn't come. The garden turned to mud. The other children complained and huddled closer around the hearth, their backs pressed together like bricks. I stayed in my place under the East stairs, the blanket pulled over my knees, listening to the rain pound the stone outside.
That's when the carriage arrived. I heard it before I saw it—wheels grinding wet stone, hooves splashing through the mud-slick street outside. Not common. Carriages didn't come down here unless something was wrong. Or something was being delivered.
I crept to the edge of the stairs and waited. Matron Lynelle didn't rush when she heard the knock. She rarely did. But she did pause in the middle of the corridor, press her lips together, and turn around. She went to her office.
That meant something. When she opened the bottom drawer of her cabinet, I knew exactly which one it would be—the black shawl, the one she only wore when visitors came who mattered just enough to be honored but not enough to be respected. Priests, sometimes. Merchants, more often. Occasionally, lesser nobles or commoners with silver-lined hopes. She folded it carefully over her shoulders and adjusted the brooch until it sat straight. Then she looked in the mirror, dabbed a bit of powder under her eyes, and left.
I stayed by the edge of the hall, just close enough to see without being seen. The door opened. The rain poured harder, like it wanted to drown the doorstep. A man stood there. His coat was dark gray and finely cut, stitched with thread that caught the lantern light. Not poor. Not rich either. His gloves were real leather. His boots were polished. But they were also muddy, and his shoulders were stiff.
He wasn't here to adopt. He was here to leave something behind. He didn't say much. He didn't need to. Matron Lynelle understood the moment he reached behind him and pulled forward a bundle wrapped in green wool.
It was a girl. Too small to walk. Too small to speak. Not a newborn—but not much older. She had that look babies get when they haven't figured out the world is supposed to hold them. Matron reached for her with the practiced arms of someone who had held many and loved few. The man didn't linger. He handed over a pouch—five gold coins, judging by the weight and how tightly Matron's fingers curled around it.
"Only for the season," he muttered. "Until spring."
Matron nodded once. "She'll be fed. Kept clean."
He didn't say goodbye to the child. He just turned and vanished back into the rain, the carriage wheels already creaking back to life. The girl didn't cry. She just blinked at the ceiling. When people came, it usually meant one of four things. Someone came to check on the Orphanage. Rare. Someone came to bring gifts. Rare and usually near holy days. Someone came to adopt. Rarer still. Or someone came to leave a child behind. That was the most common.
We all knew the signs. Matron carried the girl inside without ceremony. She didn't whisper to her or stroke her cheek. Just walked her down the hall with one arm, the other still clutching the coin pouch. The baby's eyes met mine as they passed. They were very dark, like wet bark or polished coal. She didn't look surprised to see me. Didn't look away either. Just… looked. I don't think anyone noticed that part but me.
Later, I watched as Matron handed the girl off to Sister Alira. She gave orders about feeding and where to place her until spring. Her voice was businesslike.
"She won't take up much space," Matron said. "No point putting her in with the toddlers. She can share with the baby twins until they're adopted."
"They won't be adopted," Sister Alira muttered.
"No. But we can pretend."
The girl had no name. None was written in the papers, and the man hadn't spoken it. So they called her "Rain-Bringer." Not officially. Just between themselves.
"Bad luck to get dropped off in stormwater," someone whispered.
"She'll cry all night, just wait."
"She probably won't last the winter."
I watched from the stairwell as they fed her mashed carrots and soft grain mush from a chipped spoon. She didn't cry. Not once. Even when the food ran cold. That made the caretakers frown.
"She's too quiet."
"Like the other one," said someone.
Eyes flicked toward me. I looked away. That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about the way her eyes had stayed on mine. Not scared. Not curious. Just quiet, like mine. She didn't cry. I never cried. She came with the rain. And I liked the rain. Even the kind with teeth.
The next morning, I left my mattress early. The house still slept. Only the kitchen light was on—barely. I went to the nursery room. I didn't know why. I told myself I just wanted to see. That's all. She was there. Wrapped in too many layers, stuffed into the crib beside the baby twins. They were both snoring, red-cheeked and drooling. She lay still, staring at the ceiling.
I didn't go in. Just watched from the threshold. Her eyes shifted slowly toward me. I don't know how long I stood there. Maybe minutes. Maybe more. No one saw me. Then she blinked once. Slow. Like the cat.
Back under the stairs, I sat with my knees pulled to my chest. The house was waking up—footsteps, yawns, the smell of stale porridge reheating. But I stayed curled, staring at the thread in my blanket. The girl would be gone by spring. I wasn't sure how that made me feel. But I knew I would notice.