They found the bodies in the morning.
A neighbor came to borrow something—I didn't pay attention to what. She knocked. I opened the door.
"Hello," I said.
She looked surprised to see me. "Oh. Elias. Is your father home?"
"He's dead. So is my mother. They're in the bedroom."
Her face went white. Actually white. Blood draining from surface capillaries. Shock response.
She pushed past me. Went to the bedroom. I heard her gasp. Then she came back out quickly, hand over her mouth.
"When—how long—" She couldn't form complete sentences.
"Mother died four days ago. Father died last night. Respiratory infection. Progressive deterioration. Approximately eight hours between initial symptoms and death for each."
She stared at me. "You've been here alone with... with them?"
"Yes."
"For four days?"
"Correct."
"Why didn't you get help?"
"Father was too sick to seek assistance. I was instructed not to leave the house alone. I complied."
She looked at me like I was something she'd never seen before. Fear mixed with confusion. "You... you just stayed here?"
"There were no alternative options."
She backed away from me. "I'm getting the authorities. You—just stay here."
She left quickly. Almost running.
I closed the door. Returned to the table. I'd been eating the last of the bread. It was stale but edible. I finished it while waiting.
Twenty minutes later, men arrived. Official uniforms. City guard. They went into the bedroom. Came out looking grim.
One of them crouched in front of me. Older man. Graying beard. Tried to make his face soft.
"Son, I'm sorry about your parents."
Sorry. That word. People said it when someone died. It was meant to express sympathy. Emotional support.
"Okay," I said.
He blinked. "Are you... do you understand what happened?"
"Yes. They died from respiratory infection. Their bodies are in the bedroom. Decomposition has begun. They should be removed soon."
His face did something complicated. "Right. Yes. We'll... handle that." He paused. "Do you have any other family? Grandparents? Aunts or uncles?"
"No."
"Friends? Family friends who might take you in?"
"No."
He exchanged glances with the other guard. "Okay. We'll need to take you to the district office. They'll figure out placement."
Placement. Assignment to new caregivers or institutional housing.
"Understood," I said.
"Do you have anything you want to take with you? Clothes? Toys?"
I looked around the small house. My clothes were in a drawer. I had no toys. There was nothing here I needed.
"No."
"Are you sure? Anything that belonged to your parents? Something to remember them by?"
Remember. As if I needed physical objects to maintain memory. I had perfect recall of their faces, voices, behavioral patterns. Objects were irrelevant.
"No," I said again.
He looked sad. Or something like sad. "Alright. Come with us then."
I stood. Followed them out of the house.
Didn't look back.
The district office was a large stone building. Inside smelled of paper and ink and too many people in small spaces.
They put me in a room. Told me to wait.
I sat in the chair. Counted ceiling beams. Twelve visible from this angle.
A woman entered eventually. Middle-aged. Tired eyes. Carrying papers.
"Elias Müller?" she asked.
"Yes."
She sat across from me. Looked at her papers. "I'm very sorry about your parents."
"The guard already expressed sympathy. Is repetition standard protocol?"
She paused. Looked up at me. "You're... very calm for a child who just lost both parents."
"Emotion wouldn't change the outcome. They're dead regardless of my emotional state."
She set down her papers. Studied me. "How old are you?"
"Five."
"You talk like an adult."
"I use precise language. It reduces miscommunication."
"I see." She picked up her papers again. "Well, Elias, since you have no living relatives, we'll need to place you somewhere. The orphanage is full. We'll have to put you in temporary housing. A small room in the district housing block. You'll get weekly rations. A supervisor will check on you monthly."
"How long until permanent placement?"
"That depends. Could be months. Could be longer." She made notes. "Can you take care of yourself? Basic tasks?"
"Yes. I can prepare simple food. Clean. Manage resources efficiently."
"You're five years old."
"Yes. That doesn't change my capabilities."
She looked at me for a long moment. "You're a strange child."
"I'm frequently told that."
"Well." She stood. "Someone will take you to your new room. You'll start receiving rations next week. Try to... try to be a child."
I didn't respond. The concept made no sense.
My new home was on the third floor. One room. Maybe three meters by four meters. One small bed. One chest. One window.
The guard who brought me left without saying anything else.
I stood in the center of the room. Analyzed my environment.
Bed: adequate. Chest: empty. Window: north-facing, minimal direct sunlight. Floor: stone, eight visible cracks. Walls: bare. Door: simple lock.
Functional. Sufficient.
I walked to the window. Looked out at Shiganshina's southern district. People moving through streets below. Commerce. Daily life continuing.
I turned from the window. Sat on the bed. It was harder than my old one. The blanket thinner.
I lay back. Stared at the ceiling. Nine knots in the wooden beams.
My parents were dead. I was alone. I was five years old in a room by myself.
I should feel something.
Nothing.
I closed my eyes.
If I was going to survive alone, I needed to be better at hiding what I was. The way people looked at me—fear mixed with confusion—would become a problem.
People feared what they didn't understand. Fear led to exclusion. Exclusion led to reduced resources.
So I'd learn. Practice. Perfect my mimicry until no one could tell.
Survival required adaptation.
Rule One: Observe before acting. Observation reduces unpredictability.
I recorded it in my mind. The first tool. The first rule.
I opened my eyes. Stared at those nine knots.
Seven years until the Training Corps. Seven years to learn to fake being human.
I could do that.
The next morning, I woke at dawn.
My stomach hurt. Empty. I'd eaten the last of the bread yesterday. No food in the room.
Rations started next week. The woman had said Tuesday. I counted days. Five days from now.
I needed food before then.
I got up. Left the room. Walked down three flights of stairs. Out into the street.
The morning market would be starting soon. I'd observed it many times from my old house. Vendors set up before dawn. Peak activity around mid-morning. They cleared out by afternoon.
Food waste would be minimal during setup. But at the end of the day, damaged goods got discarded.
I walked to the market district. Stayed along the edges. Watched.
Vendors arrived with carts. Set up stalls. Arranged produce. Bread. Dried meat. Cheese.
My stomach hurt more.
I sat on a step near the fountain. Waited. Observed.
People came. Bought things. Left. The vendors called out prices. Haggled. Made transactions.
Hours passed. The sun moved overhead.
I stayed still. A few people glanced at me. Moved on. I was just another street child. Invisible.
Afternoon came. The vendors started packing up.
I watched carefully. Which ones had unsold goods. Which ones looked frustrated with leftovers. Which ones threw things away.
A bread vendor near the south end. Older man. Balding. He had three loaves left. They looked fine to me but he shook his head. Muttered something about them being too hard. Started to toss them into a waste bin behind his stall.
I stood. Walked over.
"Excuse me," I said.
He looked down at me. "What?"
"Are you discarding that bread?"
"Yeah. Too stale. Won't sell tomorrow."
"May I have it?"
He studied me. "You got money?"
"No."
"Then no." He turned away.
I processed. Recalculated. "The bread will decompose in the waste bin. Giving it to me costs you nothing and prevents waste. That's efficient resource allocation."
He stopped. Turned back. Looked at me with narrowed eyes. "How old are you, kid?"
"Five."
"You talk weird."
"I'm frequently told that."
He stared at me for another moment. Then he grabbed the loaves from the bin. Shoved them at me. "Here. Take them. Get out of here."
I took the bread. "Thank you."
"Yeah, whatever." He waved me off.
I walked away. Three loaves. Enough for maybe four days if I rationed carefully.
I returned to my room. Ate half of one loaf. Wrapped the rest carefully. Stored it in the chest.
Problem solved. Temporarily.
But this wouldn't work long-term. Eventually vendors would recognize me. Would stop giving food. I'd need multiple sources. Different vendors. Different strategies.
I lay on the bed. Thought about it.
Rule Two: Humans respond to apparent benefit. Frame requests to show their advantage.
I'd told the vendor it prevented waste. That it was efficient. He'd responded to that logic even though it cost him nothing either way.
People liked to feel they were making good decisions. Smart decisions.
I could use that.
The next day, I went to the market again. Different time. Different vendor.
A woman selling vegetables. She was packing up. Had wilted greens she was about to throw away.
I approached. "Excuse me."
She looked at me. "Yes?"
"Those vegetables. Are you discarding them?"
"They're wilted. Can't sell them."
"They're still nutritionally adequate. May I have them? It would prevent waste."
She hesitated. Looked at me more carefully. "Where are your parents, child?"
"Dead."
Her expression changed. Softened. "Oh. I'm... I'm sorry."
"Your sympathy is noted. May I have the vegetables?"
She blinked. Then laughed—short, surprised sound. "You're a strange one. But yes. Here." She handed me the wilted greens. "Do you have a place to cook these?"
"No."
"They're not good raw."
"I can eat them anyway."
She shook her head. Reached into her cart. Pulled out a small wrapped package. "Here. Some cheese. It's soft but it's still good. Eat that instead."
I took it. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. Come back next week. I might have more."
I nodded. Walked away.
Success. Food acquired. Repeat strategy with variations across different vendors.
Survival probability increasing.
The pattern continued. Every day, I went to the market at different times. Approached different vendors. Asked for discarded food. Some said no. Some gave me small amounts. A few gave more than asked for.
By the end of the week, I had enough food to supplement the rations when they started.
I also learned which vendors to avoid. Which ones chased off street children. Which ones called guards. Which ones were sympathetic.
Data collection. Pattern recognition. Strategic adaptation.
I also learned I needed to look a certain way. Too healthy and vendors wouldn't help. Too desperate and they'd call authorities.
The balance was important.
I practiced in the mirror shard I'd found. Made my face look tired but not sick. Hungry but not starving. Pitiful but not threatening.
It was another kind of performance. Another mask.
But necessary.
Tuesday came. Ration distribution.
I went to the administration building. Stood in line with other orphans and poor families. The line moved slowly.
When my turn came, a bored official checked a list. "Name?"
"Elias Müller."
He found my name. Crossed it off. Pushed a small bundle toward me. "There. Next Tuesday, same time."
I took the bundle. Left.
Back in my room, I unwrapped it. Bread. Dried meat. Small amount of cheese. Some grain.
Enough for maybe four days if rationed carefully. Not enough for seven.
The vendor food would be necessary. This confirmed my strategy.
I portioned everything carefully. Wrapped each portion. Stored them in the chest.
Survival required calculation. Resource management. Forward planning.
I could do that.
Weeks passed. I maintained the pattern. Market in the afternoons. Rations on Tuesdays. My room in between.
No one bothered me. No one checked on me. The promised monthly supervisor visit never happened.
I was alone.
And I preferred it that way.
People required performance. Required constant calculation of appropriate responses. Exhausting.
Alone, I could just exist. Empty and quiet.
But I knew isolation wasn't sustainable. Children my age should have social connections. Should attend school. Should interact.
Complete isolation would eventually draw attention. Mark me as abnormal. Create problems.
So once a week, I went to the market during peak hours. Stood where people could see me. Existed visibly.
Showed I was alive. Functional. Not a problem.
No one looked too closely.
One evening, I was practicing facial expressions in the mirror shard.
Smile. Hold for three seconds. Release.
Frown. Hold for two seconds. Release.
Surprise. Widen eyes. Raise eyebrows. Hold for one second. Release.
Each expression required conscious effort. Deliberate muscle control. Nothing came naturally.
The smile looked wrong. Too symmetrical. Too controlled. Real smiles had micro-variations. Slight asymmetries. Mine didn't.
I tried again. Added a small variation to the left side. Slightly higher elevation.
Better. Still not perfect. But better.
I practiced for an hour. Different expressions. Different variations. Building muscle memory.
This was necessary. If I was going to survive, I needed to blend. Needed to appear normal.
Fake it until—
I stopped.
Fake it until what? Until it became real? That seemed unlikely. I'd been empty for five years. Nothing suggested that would change.
Fake it until no one noticed the emptiness.
That was achievable.
That was the goal.
I set down the mirror. Lay on the bed. Stared at the ceiling.
Nine knots.
I'd counted them hundreds of times now. They were more familiar than my own face.
Sleep came eventually. Dreamless. Empty.
The next day was the same. And the day after that.
The same pattern. The same emptiness. The same survival.
Days blurred together. Weeks. Months.
I was alone.
And I felt nothing about it.