“That’s Clara,” Sister Margaret sighed. “She arrived three years ago. Her parents died in a freeway accident. She’s very intelligent… but guarded. Several adoption attempts failed.”
“Why?”
“She seems to sense people’s intentions. She doesn’t attach easily.”
Jonathan felt something uncomfortable shift inside his chest. He, too, had learned to read intentions. And if he was honest, his weren’t entirely pure.
“May I speak with her?”
Clara looked up when he approached. She didn’t flinch. She studied him—deep brown eyes, observant and unsettlingly calm.
“You’re sick,” she said plainly.
Jonathan blinked. “How do you know?”
“The cane. And your eyes,” she said, pointing gently. “Tired eyes look different from sad ones.”
Sister Margaret scolded her, but Jonathan raised a hand. “She’s right.”
Clara nodded, unsurprised. Then she changed the subject completely.
“Do you want to see my garden?”
She showed him every plant—mint, basil, chamomile, cherry tomatoes, wildflowers—explaining what each one did and who it helped.
“Who taught you this?” Jonathan asked.
“My grandmother. Before the accident. And I read books.”
“Why plants?”