The soft echo of Asfinne's footsteps followed him down the staircase, a slow rhythm that resonated through the aging timbers beneath his feet. Each step creaked in a weary tone, as though the wood itself was whispering stories of years long past. The air on the first floor felt warmer than the upper levels, carrying with it faint scents of soap, wood polish, and the lingering aroma of breakfast that still drifted faintly through the halls. Voices of other children — laughter, chatter, and the occasional clatter of dishes — floated faintly from the large hall deeper inside, blending into a soft background hum that made the whole place feel alive.
When his foot reached the last step, a gentle thump echoed softly across the stone wall. Light from the front windows fell through the corridor, striking the dust that hung suspended in the air, turning the tiny particles into glimmering specks of gold. The old wooden railing beside him gleamed faintly in the sunlight, its surface polished smooth by countless hands over the years. The entire hallway seemed to breathe — the smell of damp wood mixed with the clean scent of soap and morning air.
Asfinne walked forward at a calm pace, each step deliberate, each movement quiet. He wanted to take in everything around him — the play of light, the stillness between sounds, the subtle warmth that radiated from the sunlit stones. On his left stood a door — a little newer than the others, with smoother wood and a faint sheen from regular polishing. Above it hung a small wooden plaque, fastened carefully with copper nails. The lettering was hand-carved, simple yet elegant, and filled with an unmistakable tenderness.
Two names were etched into that plaque — Mira Elseth and Lady Vernatia Halden.
Asfinne stood there in silence, eyes fixed on the gentle shine of sunlight glinting off the carved letters. The plaque was old, yet it was remarkably clean, as though someone cared for it every single day. The faint fragrance of soap and cedarwood wafted out from behind the door, carrying a sense of order and warmth that immediately brought a quiet calm to his chest.
He recognized the first name well — Mira Elseth.
A middle-aged woman with a soft face and kind eyes. She had once been one of the children raised in this very orphanage. And unlike most who left when they grew older, she had stayed. This place, with its cracked walls and flickering lights, was her lifelong home. To everyone here, she was the heart of the orphanage — the one who comforted crying children in the middle of the night, who gave them a warm hug after a nightmare, and who made sure every child fell asleep without tears on their cheeks.
Asfinne could still remember her scent — faint lavender that lingered on the cream-colored apron she always wore. That smell reminded him of spring mornings, the first sunlight filtering through fog and the soft brush of clean linens drying in the wind. Whenever he heard her footsteps echo down the hall — soft and light, almost like the whisper of wind — he would feel, without fail, that everything in this world was safe.
The second name on the plaque — Lady Vernatia Halden — was carved in a more refined script, each curve elegant, every letter bearing the weight of nobility. She was an elderly woman who had once lived among the aristocracy — a noble who had willingly abandoned her wealth and titles to serve here. People said she believed that "the life remaining should be devoted to something of true worth."
Asfinne had seen her only a handful of times, but each memory was vivid. Her long silver hair was always neatly braided, cascading over her shoulder like threads of moonlight. She wore thick cloaks even indoors, the fabric heavy but clean, and always carried a carved wooden cane. Her movements were slow but graceful; her eyes were aged yet still sparkled with the quiet pride of someone who had endured much but never lost her dignity.
Her footsteps were unforgettable — the steady rhythm of cane on floorboards, thock… thock… thock… — like a gentle clock counting time for the building itself. She was the keeper of the orphanage's documents: finances, donation records, and every child's registry. Every sheet of parchment, every pen stroke was arranged with impeccable order in the old oak cabinet of her room. The air inside smelled of old paper and ink — a scent Asfinne could recall with ease, for he had helped her sort the documents a few times. She rarely spoke, but whenever she did, she smiled. And that smile carried the stillness of a quiet evening — serene, composed, and warm in its restraint.
He lingered there for a while before that door, simply gazing at the names. The sunlight streaming through the stained glass beside it painted the floor in colors — amber, emerald, and deep sapphire — shifting gently as dust floated through the beams. It looked, for a fleeting moment, like a living spell; a breath of magic hidden within the walls of this humble orphanage.
Then, Asfinne turned his eyes to the other side of the hallway — directly opposite the women's room. There stood another door. This one looked different — older, slightly neglected. Dust gathered along the edges, and the color of the wood had faded into a dull gray. The hinges had lost their shine, and there were faint scratches near the keyhole, signs of years of use.
On that door hung another wooden plaque. The letters were worn down, nearly erased by time, but still legible enough to make out a name: Rovan Clyne.
This name too was familiar to Asfinne.
Rovan was a middle-aged man, another former orphan who had once lived here as a child. He had grown up within these same walls, played in the same halls, eaten at the same tables — and when he grew older, he had chosen to return. He now served as the orphanage's accountant and caretaker of its finances.
Yet the door said otherwise. The dust, the stillness, the faint chill — they all spoke of absence. The curtains behind the window beside the door were tied to one side, their once-bright fabric now pale and frayed. The doorknob bore a dull metallic sheen, touched and turned countless times over the years. Even the air felt different here — quieter, colder — as though the building itself knew that its owner was seldom present.
Asfinne stared at the plaque for a long moment. He had only seen Rovan a few times — always briefly. Usually, the man came late at night, delivering bundles of papers or bringing in money from outside. Then he would disappear again, often for days. His presence was fleeting, his footsteps heavy yet quick, his face always calm but marked by exhaustion. There was something unspoken in his eyes — the kind of tiredness that no rest could cure, mixed with an unwavering determination.
Asfinne stood there, caught between the warmth of the women's room and the silence of Rovan's door. The corridor felt like a world divided — one side full of light, the scent of lavender, and the heartbeat of kindness; the other side shadowed, still, and cold, echoing with the loneliness of duty.
He took a quiet breath, the warmth of the lower floor filling his lungs. It smelled faintly of soap, sunlight, and memories. Standing in that corridor, surrounded by names carved into wood, Asfinne realized that this building was more than just a shelter for children. It was a sanctuary of stories — of pasts that refused to fade, of people who had stayed behind even when time had urged them forward.
He adjusted his grip on the dish in his hands. The ceramic surface caught the dim light from the window, reflecting it in a faint gleam that shimmered across his fingers. For a moment, it looked almost like a memory — fragile, glowing, and real.
Then, with slow, steady steps, he began to walk again, his shoes brushing softly against the old wooden floor. The corridor stretched ahead, the light shifting as he moved. From the far end, a faint draft of cool air whispered through the cracks of a half-open window, stirring the gray curtain beside it. The fabric fluttered lightly — once, twice — like a hand waving gently to send him forward, onward into another morning, another page in the story of this place.
And as Asfinne walked on, the sound of his footsteps merged with the quiet rhythm of the building — the creak of wood, the sigh of air, the faint heartbeat of an orphanage that had never truly slept.