The plane tree (Tei) is in bloom.

Every year, smelling this scent brings back unpleasant memories.

I hated this season.

"Wait here, okay?"

"Mom, where are you going?"

"I have a little errand. You two can wait, right? You can play nearby."

"Will you be back soon?"

"It might take a little while. But I'll be back before sunset."

"Then can you give me that sweet one again?"

"Of course. I'll buy you another one. As many as you want... until you're full..."

Leaving those words behind, my mother walked away, her back to the orphanage.

I still vividly remember that day.

It was the season when pale yellow plane tree (Tei) blossoms and soft pink wild roses (Macheshu) bloomed profusely.

It was the Lusari festival, when people danced and sang, and unusually, our mother gave us sweet bread (kozonak).

Whether that was her way of atonement, I can't say now. Maybe it was just a whim. After all, I hardly remember anything about her these days.

We, still very young, believed without doubt her promise that she'd return soon.

Not until more than half a day had passed, when staff from the facility came with annoyed expressions to rescue the two of us playing in the garden—no, even after being rescued, we couldn't grasp for a long time that we had been abandoned.

That was the first betrayal.

◇◆◆◆◇

　

My sister and I—Nadia Lupp and Lydia Lupp—are identical twins.

We don’t remember where we were born or who our father was.

Our mother’s memories are hazy; I recall she was a beautiful woman with shiny brunette hair, but I can’t remember her voice or what kind of work she did.

The last name Lupp is common in this country.

I have no memory of relatives.

We always waited alone in a dark, cold cabin for our mother to return.

Yet I don’t think I ever truly felt loneliness. Because we weren’t alone—we supported each other.

I suppose life was hard.

I don’t remember either of us ever having eaten until we were full, nor do I recall ever having eaten anything sweet. We only had one or two pieces of clothing, and in winter we wore our mother’s sweater and huddled together under a blanket that carried the distinct smell of her, trying to keep warm.

But it was thrown away.

Since our mother was alone, taking care of us must have been too much of a burden.

The facility that took us in was what people call an orphanage, where many children like us lived.

Although our mother was gone, at the facility we at least got meals and had a room to sleep in, so we both felt a sense of relief.

There was even heating, and we were given clothes and shoes.

At that time, we were still just children unable to do anything but go with the flow, around six years old.I don't know the exact age, so perhaps I was even younger.

And thus began life at the facility, which was by no means enjoyable.

A life with things I had never had when living with my mother—clothing, food, heating—but also the loss of the freedom and emotional warmth I once had, and most importantly, the absence of someone who protected us. That was what I came to understand.

People tend to reject what is different from themselves. Twins like us were precisely such targets.

My poor eyesight made it unbearable to be outside without sunglasses, and my pale, unhealthy appearance—much paler than other children—only added to the eerie impression.

The older children all bullied us, and those of similar age tried to ostracize us out of discomfort. We were easy targets—clearly vulnerable—trapped in the closed space of the orphanage, where the weak were simply devoured.

But I had Lydia, and Lydia had me. It was because we could support each other that we endured, but without that, we would have surely broken long ago.

We weren't allowed to sing the choir (Colinda).

We weren't included in the dance group (Hora).

Our meals were taken from us on multiple occasions. I have almost no memory of ever tasting the sweets (Cornulette) given out only on special days.

We even had bugs put in our food. We were locked in a cold room together, just the two of us, on more than one occasion.

Light violence was routine—hair pulled so hard it fell out, fingers broken more than once.

Even so, we had no choice but to stay here.

There was nowhere else to go.

◇◆◆◆◇

This way of life continued, and gradually, both Lydia and I began to think about escaping.

If we went together, we’d manage somehow—there was no real proof, but it had to be better than our current existence.

Yet we had nowhere to go.

We lived as though life itself were punishment.

I wanted to go somewhere.

Somewhere, perhaps, there was a place that would accept us.

But realistically, there was no way we could ever escape somewhere. We didn’t even have one leu, let alone one ban. We couldn’t go to the nearby town, and to be honest, we didn’t even know where this facility was located.

The only thing we could do was study.

The other children didn’t really like studying, so they hardly ever came to the study room.

Lydia and I both deeply understood that just existing wasn’t enough to bring true happiness, so we decided to study.

The old woman who was useless to the facility said that if we studied well, we might find good foster parents, and we took that seriously.

I was good at studying.

Whether it stemmed from survival instinct or simply being naturally intelligent, I couldn't tell. At least within the facility, there wasn't a single child—older or younger—who could study better than us.

Perhaps that made the difference, as both Lydia and I caught the attention of the social worker and were prioritized for enrollment in elementary school. Even though we still drew curious stares at school, our academic ability spared us from much bullying.

The library was filled with countless books, and we could read them all for free.

But that only made it less appealing to the children who stayed behind at the facility.

On days when school was closed, we had nowhere to go. They intensified their bullying, and the idea that "we'd be fine as long as we were together" no longer held true.

People tend to reject what is different from themselves.

We had become strangers to ourselves.

The workers weren't on our side either. Even if we reported the bullying, the person scolded would only grow to hate us more. There was no choice but to distance ourselves.

The bullying intensified, and Lydia was nearing her breaking point.

She impulsively slammed her head against the wall or punched pillars, injuring herself. She lunged at the boy who came to bully her in a frenzy, tearing out his hair, and was locked in the punishment room.

The turning point came on her tenth birthday.

Mikaela, the only one who had ever treated us kindly, invited us to go outside together.

It was a clear-cut invitation to escape.

Mikaela-san had originally been someone from the facility, and she had left a few years ago. Perhaps because she had enjoyed herself here, she came back occasionally, bringing sweets as if returning to her family home.

She loved singing and taught us songs, singing along with us. Only when she was around could I let my guard down a little. Whenever she left, both Lydia and I would cry uncontrollably.

When she invited us to run away, we didn’t hesitate for a second.

Lydia and I had both reached our limits.

"This is surely our last chance."

That’s what we thought.

"Let’s live together in Bucharest. You know, it’s the biggest city in this country."

Of course I knew. I’d studied math and English, and I’d learned a lot about this country too.

We jumped at the opportunity.

　

With just a few belongings, we slipped out of the facility in the middle of the night and took the first bus to the station.

It didn’t take more than an hour by train from the station to Bucharest, I think.

It turned out we’d been living much closer to the capital than I’d imagined.

I’d ridden a bus before, but this was my first time on a train. I knew, of course, that trains existed, but I’d never expected them to be so noisy—both Lydia and I were thrilled.

A new life.

We were full of excitement for our new life.

We were both just children, barely understanding the world around us.

Inside that facility, it felt like a prison cut off from the outside world, as if the real world existed somewhere else. In that vast, boundless world, there would be no bullying, no curious stares at us, only something warmer and kinder—vaguely, that's what we imagined.

It took growing a bit older to realize that the truth was that the world itself was merely an expanded version of what we had experienced within that facility.

We didn’t understand that this world operated on survival of the fittest—that we, who had been weak even in such a small, insignificant place, could never hope to live normally in a massive city like Bucharest.

Arriving in Bucharest, we walked through the streets.

So many people. So many cars. The station was huge, and everything was so unfamiliar that even Lydia’s eyes widened and she bounced with excitement.

Where do you live? That big apartment? Or over there? Both Lydia and

I were imagining our fun new lives ahead. "Right here," Sister

Mikaela suddenly says by the roadside

. She points to a hole. She smiles

shyly, showing her

jagged, blackened teeth like a

dog's. "I live inside a manhole. You two will love

it too." That was also in June, when the plane trees planted

as street trees suddenly

bloomed. Lydia and I became inhabitants of the

underground (Manhole Children). If you liked it, please rate