Silence descended, heavy and absolute, broken only by the building's groans—the walls fracturing like brittle bones, floors splintering as if the structure itself recoiled from the horrors it had cradled.
By dawn's pale intrusion, Ashbrook Orphan House was eradicated.
Only smoldering ruins remained, tendrils of smoke curling toward an indifferent sky.
And across town, in a modest house with crimson curtains fluttering like wounds, two girls reclined on a worn couch.
One smiled faintly, spoon in hand, savoring the simple act of eating.
The other lounged with feet tucked beneath her, eyes fixed on flickering cartoons, a semblance of normalcy veiling the abyss within.
Bowls of pudding rested between them, untouched by quotas or cruelty.
No one counted anymore.
No one dared.
.
.
.
The next morning, they wandered through the whispering woods, hands clasped in a grip that was both anchor and chain—fragile fingers intertwined, knuckles white with unspoken fears.
