Revilsa

  The orphanage is old. It creaks when the wind pushes against it, groaning like an old machine that should’ve stopped working a long time ago. The walls are patched where the wood rotted away, some repairs done by human hands, others by rusty machines that sputter and spark like they don’t want to be here.

  I don’t think anyone really wants to be here.

  I sit on the steps outside, knees pulled to my chest, watching. I do that a lot—just watching. The sky stretches overhead, vast and gray, the sun hidden behind thick clouds. The air smells like damp wood and metal, like almost everything in this house.

  Klev is nearby, carving something into a block of wood with his knife. I don’t know what it is yet. Maybe he doesn’t, either. He carves a lot, whittling away at nothing, as if his hands need to be busy.

  “You gonna keep staring, or you wanna actually say something?” he asks without looking up.

  I don’t answer.

  He smirks like he expected that. He always teases, always finds something to poke at. “Y’know, for someone who doesn’t talk, you sure do a lot of thinking. Maybe one day you’ll overheat that brain of yours.”

  I rest my chin on my knees. That wouldn’t be so bad.

  Klev shakes his head and goes back to carving. I watch his hands move, the way the knife scrapes against the wood. Shavings fall into his p like brittle leaves. He doesn’t stop. He always has something to do, something to create.

  I don’t.

  Cherry stomps out of the orphanage, her red hair tied in a messy bun, eyes narrowed as she gres at the wrench in her hand. It's at moments like these that I notice how terrifying her green eyes can be. She mutters under her breath about the washing unit breaking down again.

  “I swear, this pce is held together with spit and hope,” she grumbles. “One more malfunction and I’m tossing every piece of junk into the river.”

  She won’t. She always says that. But she’ll fix it anyway, just like she fixes everything else. Cooking, cleaning, making sure we don’t burn down the house—Cherry does it all. I wonder if she ever gets tired of holding this pce together. I wonder if she ever resents it.

  I would.

  I shift my gaze to the field beyond the orphanage, where Vortex is training again. He’s always training. Always moving, always pushing himself forward. His dark hair clings to his sweat-covered forehead as he swings a heavy metal rod in wide arcs, muscles tensing with every movement.

  He’s leaving soon.

  He decided a long time ago that he wouldn’t stay here forever. He has a goal. A dream. He wants to be a hero, so he works for it. Every single day.

  I watch him, wondering what it’s like. To want something so badly that you throw everything you have at it. To believe that you can be more.

  I don’t have that. I don’t have anything. Just my breathing, days that pass like a fog, and a feeling that maybe I was meant to be background noise.

  A gust of wind kicks up dust, and I close my eyes for a moment, listening to the faint hum of the broken machines inside, the dull scrape of Klev’s knife, the frustrated muttering of Cherry, the rhythmic grunts of Vortex training.

  Then I hear something new.

  Footsteps. Rushed footsteps.

  I lift my head.

  Cherry turns first, brow furrowed, then Klev stops carving, looking toward the figures approaching. Vortex doesn’t stop training, not until he hears Cherry’s gasp.

  A man trudges toward us, breathing hard. His clothes are torn, stained with something dark. In his arms, he carries a boy.

  A boy with crimson hair, limp and bleeding. For a second, my mind thoughts drift to the rabbit Vortex hunted for dinner, but this is different.

  Enough to make my stomach twist.

  I watch as Cherry rushes forward, shouting for Grandma Rose. As Klev curses under his breath. As Vortex wipes sweat from his brow, stepping closer with narrowed eyes.

  I watch, because that’s all I ever do.