At 2:45 on Wednesday afternoon, Lance Blue arrived at the entrance to the community center right on time.
He had deliberately changed into relatively clean clothes today—an old T-shirt from Jake, washed so often it had faded white but had no holes.
He wet his hands and smoothed down his messy blue hair, though several stubborn cowlicks soon sprang back up.
The building was more formal than he had imagined.
It was a three-story structure, its glass doors polished until they gleamed, with a sign outside reading: “Union Community Service Station.”
Through the glass, he could see several tables set up in the lobby and several Union staff members bustling about.
Lance Blue lingered outside for three minutes.
In seven years, he had never entered any “official institution.”
The hospital had existed when he was born, so it did not count.
The newsstand, park benches, and the alley behind the convenience store—those were his territory.
But the scent of apple pie wafted through the crack in the door.
It smelled amazing.
Sweet and rich, carrying the scent of cinnamon and baked pastry, it was more tempting than the savory fragrance of pancakes.
"Then what are we waiting for?"
He pushed the door open and walked inside.
The wind chime rang. A young woman with a ponytail at the front desk looked up, and her eyes lit up. "Oh my, what a beautiful child! Are you lost?"
Here we go again.
Lance Blue put on a stern face. "I came for the apple pie."
"Apple pie?" The woman blinked, then laughed. "Oh, it’s Wednesday Snack Day! The activity room is straight ahead and to the right. But where are your parents, sweetheart?"
Lance Blue’s expression did not change. "I’m an orphan."
That was half true and half false.
It was true that he had no parents, but he had never considered himself an “orphan” who needed anyone’s pity.
Sure enough, the woman’s expression softened. "I see... Then hurry along. There’s still plenty of apple pie left today."
The activity room was livelier than the lobby.
Several platters of snacks sat on a long table. Seven or eight children were gathered around small tables, drawing or playing with puzzles. A few adults stood in the corner, looking like volunteers.
Lance Blue’s gaze locked directly onto the snack table. Apple pie—golden pastry crust, large chunks of apple visible in the filling, and a glossy layer of syrup brushed across the surface.
He walked over and picked up a slice.
"You need to wash your hands first," a gentle voice said beside him.
Lance Blue turned his head. It was the bespectacled man from yesterday. He had changed into a light gray shirt today, and a work badge was pinned to his chest:
[Community Services Officer—Elliot]
"My hands are clean."
Lance Blue raised his left hand to show him—he really had scrubbed them carefully beneath the faucet in the park.
Elliot smiled. "Then enjoy. By the way, would you like some juice?"
Five minutes later, Lance Blue sat on a small chair in the corner, apple pie in one hand and orange juice in the other, feeling as if he had entered some unreal fantasy.
The pie was warm. When he bit into it, flakes of pastry fell onto his lap. The apple filling was perfectly balanced between tart and sweet, while the cinnamon fragrance was just right. It was even more delicious than he had imagined.
"Well?"
Elliot sat down across from him with a cup of tea in hand.
"Not bad," Lance Blue assessed cautiously. "I’d give it an eight out of ten."
"And what cost it those two points?"
"It’s too small." Lance Blue spoke seriously. "Something this delicious should be as big as a pancake."
Elliot laughed. "I’ll make that suggestion to the kitchen. By the way, did you read the flyer?"
Lance Blue swallowed the last bite of pie and licked the syrup from his fingers. "I read it. But I’ll say the same thing: no household registration, no file, and theoretically, I don’t exist."
"And yet someone who theoretically doesn’t exist is eating our community’s apple pie."
Elliot pushed up his glasses. "Lance Blue—is that a name you chose for yourself?"
"Is there a problem with it?"
"No. It’s very creative." Elliot pulled a form from his folder.
"In fact, while cases like yours are rare, they are not unprecedented. Article Seventeen of Chapter Three of Union Law states that for minors whose guardians cannot be identified, the community may apply for temporary guardianship and provide basic identity registration."
Lance Blue stared at the form. "What’s the price?"
"The price?" Elliot was somewhat shocked. A ten-year-old child could say something like that?
"There’s no such thing as a free lunch in this world."
Lance Blue said, "Mrs. Carter’s pancakes cost conversation, and Jake’s bread costs labor. This—" He pointed at the pie he had finished. "—what do I have to trade for it?"
Elliot fell silent for a few seconds. The noise of the activity room seemed especially distant at that moment.
"Ha ha ha." At last, he laughed.
"I need to know how you survived until the age of ten. Your daily routine, the people you have met, the places you have gone. A detailed record."
"Why?"
"Because your very existence is unusual."
Elliot lowered his voice. "Hospital records show that you appeared suddenly. There was no pregnancy record, no delivery process—it was as though... you were born out of thin air. Scientifically, that is impossible."
Lance Blue felt the numbers on his wrist grow faintly warm. Instinctively, he pulled down his sleeve to cover them.
"So I theoretically don’t exist."
"No. You are someone who needs protection." Elliot looked directly into his eyes. "Lance Blue, have you ever thought about why you were able to survive? Why strangers were willing to give you food and clothes? Why you have never truly been harmed?"
Lance Blue had considered that question countless times. On cold nights curled up in the newsstand, on rainy days sheltering beneath the convenience store’s awning, when hunger made his stomach ache but he always encountered someone kind.
"I’m lucky," he said.
"Lucky for ten consecutive years?" Elliot shook his head. "I investigated. Mrs. Carter at the pancake stall was actually supposed to move away three years ago, because her daughter bought a house in another district. But she stayed, saying, ‘I just feel like this street still needs me.’"
"Jake at the convenience store was only meant to be a temporary employee. He should have changed jobs long ago. Yet he has still worked the night shift for two years, because he wanted to ‘keep a better eye on this street at night.’"
"Even the newsstand where you live had been scheduled for demolition three years ago, but it was repeatedly postponed for all sorts of reasons—documents lost, scheduling conflicts for the construction crew, a joint petition from nearby residents asking for it to be preserved..."
Elliot paused. "Taken individually, these are all coincidences. But when they all happen around you, they are no longer coincidences."
Lance Blue’s heart suddenly began pounding.
He recalled those moments.
—When he happened to need food, Mrs. Carter happened to make an extra pancake.
—When he needed shelter from the rain, Jake happened to put up a sign outside the convenience store that read, “Rain Shelter.”
—During the coldest days of winter, old blankets left by someone unknown would always appear around the newsstand.
He had always thought his “business model” was working.
"What are you trying to say?" Lance Blue asked.
"I’m saying that your very existence may be affecting your surroundings." Elliot’s expression grew serious. "Lance Blue, this world has a kind of power called Trust Value. When people believe in something, when they believe in someone, that trust can become a tangible influence."
The clock in the activity room pointed to three-thirty. Sunlight slanted through the window, casting rectangular patches of light across the floor.
"You mean me?" Lance Blue asked.
"We need to confirm it." Elliot pushed the form toward him.
"Filling this out does not mean you will lose your freedom. You can still live in your newsstand and eat your pancakes. But you will have an official record and an emergency contact—you can list me. And you will receive a basic monthly living allowance, enough to buy bread and milk."
"If it’s possible..." Elliot looked at Lance Blue through his glasses.
"Do you want to become a hero?"
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