Chapter Text
“Come on, Violet. You just need a big puff.”
The little girl tried her best, puffing her cheeks, but before she could blow out the candles, her younger sister did the job for her.
It was an interesting sight—how Violet’s clenched face and furrowed brows softened the moment she saw the bright smile on Powder’s face. She couldn’t stay mad at that tiny creature, so excited to share something with her big sister.
Connel scooped Powder up as Felicia exclaimed, “Oh no, Powder!”
That was all Violet could remember before she saw her mother’s motionless body lying on the bridge.
When she could not remember how to breathe, she could only puff.
Once. Twice.
Then her effort was interrupted by tears spilling down her face. The force of her sobs was strong enough to bring her to her knees, but Powder clung to her, keeping her from collapsing. The warm red dust around them did nothing to raise the temperature; everything felt stiflingly cold—no, freezing. All she could see were the metal helmets of the enforcers as they fired.
Violet realized immediately that to them, her parents were just two more bodies among the flood of terrified people. She and her sister could easily become the next.
She looked down and saw only a trembling little girl—confused, even more confused than she was. And Violet thought that if Powder died here, she wouldn’t even realize she was dying.
That glance—that exact moment—was when Violet tightened her grip around her sister’s hand and ran. didn’t look for familiar faces. didn’t beg for help.
The orphanage corridor was so long it felt like it stretched into the afterlife.
Powder kept turning the question over in her head, trying to understand why they were in this eerie place. Despite Vi’s explanations, she still didn’t understand why they couldn’t go home. Even if Mom and Dad were gone for a while, why did they have to stay somewhere so scary? A place full of running children and strange women in unfamiliar clothes, shouting orders?
Vi, meanwhile, was dealing with other things.
The woman who had brought them inside left the room after a few minutes. Not long later, another woman entered, wearing a simple navy-blue dress that reached her ankles.
She sat at the table, took out several papers and a plain pen, and after looking the girls over from head to toe, asked, “Names?”
Her voice was too sharp for children who had lost their parents only three hours earlier.
“I’m Violet,” she said. “This is my sister. Powder.”
“Last name?”
Violet hesitated, then shook her head. “I don’t know.”
The pen paused, then continued.
“Ages?”
“Eleven,” Vi said. “She’s seven.”
Powder squeezed Vi’s sleeve, but Vi didn’t look down.
“You understand what this place is,” the woman said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” Violet answered.
“And you’re staying of your own will?”
“Yes.”
Another mark on the page.
“Parents?”
Violet’s jaw tightened. She thought for a moment, then used the most distant word she knew for death. “Deceased.”
“Any illnesses? Injuries?”
“No.”
“Can you read and write?”
“Yes.”
“And your sister?”
“A little. I’m teaching her.”
Powder nodded again, as if that mattered.
A moment passed. Then the ledger closed.
“You’ll be given clothes. A bed. Food.” The woman’s voice was flat, procedural. “There are rules. You’ll learn them.”
She paused, then added, “Beds are usually separate.”
Violet lifted her head. “We stay together.”
The woman studied them both again—the older one standing too straight, the younger half-hidden behind her.
“For now,” she said, stepping aside and opening the door wider.