THE LOST PIECE

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len toys. A doll with a chipped face, a wooden truck with a broken wheel, and a collection of marbles-each one carefully hoarded in the small patch of snow he had claimed as his ow

. Tom's head snapped up, his wide brown eyes narrowing. His breath puffed out in visi

e his stomach twist in irritation, and he turned to find her s

Helen, he remembered. She was always smiling, always running around with the others, always annoying him. And now, here sh

er small voice firm, though it

sn't looking. It had a pink dress and a tiny bonnet, and it looked so much better in his collection than it had

t sharp, a taunting lilt to it. "It

she didn't get her way. "It's my toy, and you took it!" she said, stepping closer, her small b

abulary was already perfect, compared to hers who still mispronounces words and he was taller

dn't stop me, did you?" His voice was so smug, the little monster.

on. She reached out again, her tiny fingers brushing agai

med, her voice cracking with th

ying, but cute. And she wasn't giving up, was she? Tom's lips curled into a t

o calm for a boy so small. "You can have it

ed at him, wide-eyed and confused. "My marbles?"

form so relaxed that it looked as though he had all the time in the

is hands. It was a hard choice for a three-year-old. But after a moment, her pout deepened, and she no

he words barely leaving his mouth before Helen shoved the marbles into his han

omp off, the boy's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of something darker passing through them. Maybe she wasn't as an

tly as she walked away, looking back just once at the boy with the mess

~

there was something about Tom that didn't sit right with her. She'd seen many children come and go through the orphanage doors-some with wild imaginations, others with bruised hea

en there were the incidents-small things at first: a toy disappearing here, a penny or two vanishing from a pocket there. But as the years went on, the thefts grew more frequent, an

r had ended in a chilling silence, followed by the unmistakable sound of the boy's sobs as he ran to Mrs. Cole, h

time went on. The boy was a bully, that much

ces: under the floorboards, inside his shoes, tucked behind the rafters in the attic. Mrs. Cole had found one of his hiding spots once when she was cleaning, a small stash of

rlying concern. "You're causing problems again. You know the rules here

ere was something unsettling about it. "I didn't tak

insisted, her eyes hardeni

for her words, for the rules of the orphanage, or for anything at all. "They didn

ling, stealing is wrong, you know. You can't

ightly, his small hands gripping the toy in h

t, Tom. We have to respect other people's things. You woul

calculating her words, his voice low and stead.

ow we behave. We follow the rules, even when we want so

hat to do. I don't n

don't want you to grow up making mi

n. "I don't make mistakes. You

g unsettling beneath his calm demeanor. "Tom, it's not about being right or

ession unreadable. "I don

And I want you to learn t

hers once more. "I don't ne