**Blue Eyes from a Dream**
Oliver had never known his mother’s touch or his father’s voice. His earliest memories were of grey, monotonous hallways and the hushed footsteps of caretakers. It was as if he had been born not from a woman, but within the cold walls of a Liverpool orphanage. Other children had fragments—a cradle, the scent of perfume, warm hands. He had only the chill of plastic toys and the sound of running water from the sink.
But nights were different.
In his dreams, a woman came to him. She would sit beside him, hold him, stroke his hair, and whisper kind words. Her eyes were like a spring sky after rain—clear, blue, impossibly familiar. He would wake and lie still for a long time, staring at the ceiling, afraid to move, afraid to lose the warmth of that dream. The whole day after, he was quiet, but less sullen—as though a piece of her kindness stayed with him.
In reality, it was nothing like that. Every day, “visitors” came to the orphanage—prospective parents. The children dressed up, recited poems, forced smiles onto their faces. They fought for attention, shoved, interrupted. But Oliver stayed apart. He didn’t clown around, didn’t grin, didn’t beg for a glance. He was waiting. Not for anyone—just for *her*, the woman from his dreams.
“Oliver, *please* smile, just once!” the caretaker pleaded.
He only scowled and turned away. He wouldn’t leave with strangers. He’d know *her* when he saw her.
Then came an open day—a charity event for the orphanage’s anniversary. Cameras, reporters, unfamiliar faces. Oliver sat in his usual corner, out of the way. But then his gaze caught on a woman—tall, poised, with short-cropped hair and *that* smile. And her eyes… *hers*. His breath hitched.
Suddenly, she looked straight at him. Their eyes met, and for the first time in his life… he smiled.
The caretaker nearly dropped her tea. In six years at the home, Oliver had never smiled. Not once. And now—suddenly, genuinely, brightly.
She walked over. Sat beside him. He didn’t look away. He listened, laughed, asked questions. And for once, he wasn’t afraid. Being with her felt just like his dreams—easy, safe, *real*.
She started visiting him. No cameras, no crowds. She brought books, took him for walks, pointed out clouds and told him about the places she’d travelled. Then she disappeared. A whole month passed. Oliver didn’t ask the staff—he dreaded hearing she wouldn’t return.
But she did. One day, she walked in, no makeup, wearing a simple jacket.
“Oliver,” she said, “I came to take you home. You’ll be my son.”
He didn’t believe her. Thought he was dreaming. Pinched himself—*pain*. So it was real. He didn’t say a word, just hugged her. Tight. Silent. The only way he knew how.
Later, she introduced him to her husband—a quiet, kind man who welcomed him as his own. Together, they began a new life. His first birthday cake in their flat. His first trip to the countryside. His first night falling asleep without the sound of strangers’ footsteps in the hall.
Oliver never went back to the orphanage. But sometimes, passing a mirror, he’d catch it—that same light in his eyes. Blue. Warm. Just like hers. His mother’s. His *real* one.
Funny how dreams find a way of coming true.
