the broken girl
The orphanage sat at the far edge of the city like a secret no one wanted to keep. Its walls were gray, its windows barred, and its gates were always closed. The sign outside read St. Hallow's Home for Lost Children, but inside, the only thing that ever felt lost were the children themselves who has nobody by their side.
When Kris arrived, the rain had just stopped. Mud clung to her shoes as she was led through the gates by a woman with sharp eyes and a smile too wide to mean kindness. Mrs. Garron. Her perfume was strong enough to sting.
"Rule number one," she said, unlocking the heavy door, "we don't cry here. Crying only makes you weaker, and weakness is not allowed here. You understand?"
Kris nodded, though her eyes were still red from the funeral.
"Good girl," the woman said, almost pleased with herself. "You'll learn quickly."
The door shut behind her with a sound that reminded Kris of something final.
The hallway smelled of bleach and damp wood. The walls were covered in pictures of smiling children, though none of the faces looked real — as if someone had told them to pretend they were happy. Kris followed the woman up a flight of stairs until they reached a small room with five metal beds.
"This one's yours," Mrs. Garron said. "Lights out at nine. Breakfast at six. You'll help with chores until we decide if you can go to school."
Kris sat on the bed. The mattress was thin, the blanket frayed at the corners. A single pillow waited, flat and stiff.
The woman lingered in the doorway. "We expect gratitude here, child. Say thank you."
Kris looked at her, eyes blank. "Thank you," she whispered.
When the door closed, she pressed her hands together and stared at the floor. The silence was heavy. She wanted to cry, but even her tears had grown tired.
That night, she dreamed of her mother's voice — soft and warm, calling her name through the smoke. When she woke, the room was dark, and for a moment, she didn't know where she was. Then she remembered. And she wished she hadn't.
The days at St. Hallow's passed like gray smoke. Breakfast was thin porridge, always cold. The older children shoved the younger ones. The younger ones learned to disappear. Kris didn't talk much. She ate what she could, did her chores, and watched the sky through the window whenever she was alone.
Sometimes, when the sunlight hit the iron bars just right, she imagined they were made of gold instead.
There were other girls in her room — five in total. Most ignored her. Some whispered about her when they thought she couldn't hear. She's the one whose house burned down, they'd say. The one who killed her parents.
Although it hurt but she never corrected them. At least it was easier that way.
The only person who ever tried to speak to her was a girl named Mira — small, quick, and brave in the way wild things are. Mira had been there longer than anyone else. She had a scar on her wrist and eyes that had forgotten how to dream.
"You don't talk much," Mira said one evening, sitting beside her.
Kris shrugged. "No one listens."
Mira smiled faintly. "Then talk to me. I'm nobody."
That was the beginning of something — not friendship exactly, but a fragile truce against loneliness. They shared food when they could. They hid each other's mistakes. When someone tried to bully Kris, Mira was there, small but fierce, always ready to fight.
But even Mira couldn't protect her from the nights.
Some nights, the silence of the orphanage felt alive — breathing, watching. Kris would hear footsteps in the hallway long after the lights went out. Once, when she was thirteen, she woke to a shadow at the edge of her bed.
A man's silhouette.
One of the staff. His breath reeked of whiskey.
"Pretty little thing," he murmured. "You don't sleep well, do you?"
Kris froze. Her fingers gripped the locket at her neck so hard it cut into her skin.
The man took a step forward — and then a voice cut through the dark.
"Leave her alone."
Mira stood in the doorway, trembling, her small frame blocking the light. She screamed loud enough to wake half the building.
The man cursed and fled down the hall.
No one believed them when they told Mrs. Garron.
"You girls dream too much," she said, waving it away. "Don't make trouble."
That night, Kris and Mira sat by the window until morning, watching the rain. Neither spoke. But in the silence, something changed inside Kris — a flicker of the same fire that had once burned her home.
She wasn't afraid anymore. She was angry.
Years passed. The seasons changed, but St. Hallow's never did. Children came and went, faces blurred by time. Mira grew thin and quiet, her eyes dull from too many punishments. Kris grew stronger, quieter, harder.
She learned how to fight back when the older boys from the workhouse tried to corner her. She learned how to read faces, how to lie when she needed to, how to survive.
And through it all, she held onto the locket.
When she turned fifteen, something strange happened. She was cleaning the matron's office — scrubbing the floor while Mrs. Garron stepped out to shout at a boy — when she noticed a folder sticking out from the drawer.
Aven Family — Confidential.
Her breath caught. Her hands shook as she pulled it open.
Inside were old newspaper clippings. She saw headlines she remembered: Family Dies in Fire. Father Resisted Authorities. No Survivors Expected.
Then she saw it — a photograph. Her father, standing beside a man in a black suit. The same man who had been in their house that night. The scar.
Kris's vision blurred. She flipped the photo over. There was a note written in rushed handwriting:
> Payment confirmed. The book was destroyed. The witnesses are gone.
The book.
Her father's bookstore.
She felt like the air had been punched out of her lungs. The men hadn't just killed her parents — they had erased them. Her father had refused to cooperate, and they had silenced him.
She folded the note and slipped it into her locket, beside the picture of her parents she'd cut from an old photo.
That night, she didn't sleep. She sat by the window, watching the moonlight crawl across the floorboards. For the first time in years, she spoke out loud.
"You wanted me dead too," she whispered to the night. "But I'm still here."
Her reflection in the window stared back — older now, her eyes colder, her face pale but strong.
By morning, her decision was made.
She waited until Mrs. Garron's rounds were finished, until the guards changed shift. Then she slipped through the laundry room, scaled the back fence, and ran.
The rain fell hard, but she didn't stop. Every drop felt like a baptism — washing away the last of the frightened child she used to be.
When she reached the city, the world felt enormous and cruel. Lights, cars, people who didn't see her. She found an alley and slept behind a dumpster that smelled of smoke and rot. For the first time in her life, she was completely alone.
But she wasn't afraid.
She learned quickly. Which shops left food out back. Which streets were safest at night. Which people to avoid.
Some nights, she heard her parents' voices in her dreams — calling her back, asking her to rest. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw that man's face. The scar. The fire.
One evening, she found a small, cracked mirror behind a convenience store. She stared at her reflection for a long time. The girl who looked back wasn't the same one who had lived in Elmorah. Her eyes were darker now, her lips set in a line that didn't bend for pity.
She whispered to her reflection:
"They took everything from me. But they didn't take me."
And for the first time in years, she smiled — not with joy, but with certainty.
Her parents' deaths were no longer just a memory. They were a mission which she was ready to take.
She didn't know how she'd find them yet, or how many people she'd have to become to get there. But she knew one thing for sure: she wouldn't stop until every name, every face, every scar was gone.
The city lights flickered like embers as she walked down the street, the locket glowing faintly against her skin.
The broken girl of Elmorah was gone.
What remained was something else entirely.
Something the world would learn to fear.