The rain that morning didn't sound like the usual kind that came and went. It was heavy, steady — the kind that blurred the world into gray and made even the air taste like rust. The children stayed inside, sitting shoulder to shoulder near the fire pit that barely smoked. Rion kept the broom near his feet, even though there wasn't much to sweep indoors, and Elias tried to dry his shirt by holding it a little too close to the flames. The room smelled of wet wood, boiled roots, and the faint sweetness of ash — a familiar scent, the kind that told them the day would pass quietly, or at least try to.
The door opened just as someone sneezed.
Cold air rushed in, followed by a figure too clean for the place she stepped into.
She couldn't have been much older than them — maybe fifteen, sixteen at most — but she stood in the doorway like she wasn't sure she had the right to enter. Her hair was a soft brown, tied into a loose braid that had come undone near the ends, and her scarf, white as snow, looked completely out of place in the mud-colored room. She carried a small satchel that had seen better days and a folded letter pressed tightly against her chest.
No one spoke at first. The caretakers were gone — they often left before dawn to trade whatever they could at the next village. That meant it was just the orphans, and the orphans were bad at meeting new people.
Elias was the first to whisper. "A lost noble?" he muttered under his breath. "She's gonna freeze to death if she stays here."
"Shut up," Rion said quietly, though he smiled a little when he said it. He walked over, brushing dirt off his hands. "You can come in. The fire's weak, but it's warm enough."
The girl looked up, her eyes flickering between the floor and his face. "I… I was told to come here," she said softly. Her voice carried that uncertain tone — one that sounded like she hadn't spoken much lately. "The church sent me. They said the orphanage needed help."
The room stayed quiet again. Seren, sitting on the far bench, lifted his gaze from the book he wasn't really reading. "The church?" he repeated, his tone flat but curious.
The girl nodded once, then hesitated. "I'm Lira."
Rion nodded back, his smile easy, the same one he always wore when the younger ones got scared. "I'm Rion. That's Elias, the one trying to burn his own shirt, and that's Seren."
Elias made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. "I'm not burning it. I'm drying it."
"Right," Rion said, pulling another chair toward the fire. "Sit. You'll get sick if you stay by the door."
Lira stepped forward slowly, careful not to let her boots track too much mud inside. She sat near the fire, her scarf still around her neck, and for a while the only sound was the crackle of wet wood trying its best to stay lit.
It wasn't that she didn't want to talk — she just seemed unsure of what to say. Her hands rested on her knees, her eyes darting around the small, worn room like she was counting exits.
Rion noticed that sort of thing — always did. "You came from afar?" he asked.
Lira hesitated, then nodded. "From the north side of the border. I used to… stay at one of the church houses there. They said this orphanage needed someone to help clean, maybe teach."
"Teach?" Elias leaned closer, grinning. "You mean you know how to read?"
"A little," she said, and her cheeks flushed faintly at the way he stared.
Rion sat down across from her, elbows on his knees. "That'll help. Most of the kids can't."
"Do you?" Lira asked before she could stop herself.
He smiled again, scratching his cheek with one hand. "Barely. Seren's the smart one."
Seren didn't look up from his book this time. "At least one of us should be able to."
Rion laughed — that quiet, genuine laugh — made Lira's shoulders drop just a little, like something inside her finally loosened.
They didn't talk about the church after that. Not because they forgot, but because the room felt warmer when they didn't.
By afternoon, the rain slowed, and the gray light coming through the windows turned softer. The children who had hidden away began to peek out — small faces with wide eyes, drawn to the new girl's clean scarf and calm voice. She didn't know what to do with them at first. When one of the little ones tugged at her sleeve, she froze, unsure whether to smile or move away.
Rion noticed and stepped in. "They just want to know if you're staying," he said.
"Am I?" she asked quietly, almost to herself.
"I hope so," he replied, without hesitation.
There was something about the way he said it — not demanding, not eager, just steady — that made her chest feel oddly tight.
That evening, she helped serve what little dinner they had. Boiled roots and dry bread. The portions were uneven, but Rion always took the smallest one first, making it look natural so no one would argue. Elias, on the other hand, grumbled the whole time but still slipped half of his share to one of the younger kids when he thought no one was looking.
Lira noticed both. She didn't say anything, but she watched how Rion smiled even when the food tasted bitter, how he always looked around first before eating, making sure everyone had something.
Later that night, as the rain turned to a drizzle, Rion stepped outside with the broken broom again. The sky was still covered, the moon hidden behind thick clouds, and the yard was full of puddles that reflected the dim light from the windows.
"You really sweep every night?" Lira's voice came from behind him.
He didn't turn immediately, just pushed the broom along the muddy ground like it still mattered. "If I don't, no one will."
"It's just dirt," she said, half teasing.
He smiled faintly, still looking at the ground. "Yeah. But if you leave it, it piles up. Then one day, the place doesn't feel like home anymore."
Lira crossed her arms, pulling her scarf tighter. "You talk like an old man."
"Elias says that too." He laughed softly.
She didn't say anything for a while. The rain had stopped, but the air still smelled of it — clean and cold, the kind that made you feel small in a good way.
"You always smile," she said quietly. "Even when nothing's funny."
He looked at her then, his hair clinging slightly to his forehead. "Maybe that's why people stay. Someone has to make it feel like things will be okay."
There was no answer to that. She just stood there, listening to the soft scrape of the broom, the rhythm of it almost comforting.
Inside, she could hear Elias arguing with Seren again — something about chores or who used the last of the dry wood — and for a brief moment, it sounded like a family. Not perfect, not peaceful, but real.
She looked around at the fences that leaned a little too far, the cracked walls patched with old boards, the smoke rising weakly from the fire pit. It wasn't much. But when she saw Rion's faint smile in the dim light, sweeping like it actually made a difference, she thought maybe it was enough.
The next morning, when the sun finally returned, Lira stood by the wash basin behind the orphanage, sleeves rolled up and scarf set aside for once. Her hands moved slowly, careful with the water like she'd forgotten how to waste it. She had already scrubbed her cloak twice, then her hair, then her hands again, as if she could wash away the distance between wherever she'd come from and where she was now.
Rion noticed her there while carrying a bucket of feed for the chickens that never laid enough eggs. "You'll wash the color out if you keep at it," he said, smiling as usual.
"I just—" She stopped, her fingers hovering above the basin. "I didn't want to bring dirt inside."
"You won't," he said. "The place has enough of its own."
That made her smile faintly, almost against her will.
After a while, when she finally looked up, the morning light caught her face properly for the first time. Her hair, now clean, was a soft shade between brown and gold, tied again into a neat braid that fell over her shoulder. Her skin was pale, not the fragile kind but the sort that made every bruise stand out. She had sharp eyes — not cold, just observant — the color of light amber when the sun hit them right. Her lips were small and calm, often pressed together like she was holding back words she didn't think she should say.
When she put the scarf back on, it wasn't just a scarf anymore. It was almost like armor — something that helped her remember who she had to be.
Elias showed up halfway through breakfast, his hair sticking out in every direction, and squinted at her. "You look different," he said bluntly, biting into a piece of stale bread.
Lira looked up from her seat near the window. "Different how?"
"Like someone who belongs somewhere," he said with a grin, before shoving another piece of bread into his mouth.
Seren didn't look up from the corner where he was sorting old, torn pages of a book he'd found in town. "Don't bother trying to understand him. He says things before he thinks."
"I noticed," Lira murmured.
Rion, sitting on the opposite bench, just watched the three of them with an easy look that said he was happy to see the table full. For once, there were enough people to make the silence feel comfortable. The room felt more alive, the sound of spoons scraping bowls somehow lighter than usual.
After breakfast, they went about their usual chores — patching leaks, fetching water, trying to fix the fence before it finally collapsed. Lira tried to help, though it was clear she wasn't used to it. Her hands trembled after lifting one of the heavier planks, and Rion quietly stepped in to take it from her without saying anything.
"You don't have to," she said, frowning slightly.
"I know," he said. "But you don't have to either."
She looked at him, confused, and then back at the plank he'd set down. "You talk like helping isn't supposed to mean something."
"It does," he said simply, wiping his hands on his shirt. "But it doesn't have to hurt to count."
He said it casually, but it stayed with her longer than she wanted to admit.
By midday, she'd found a rhythm — hanging washed clothes, folding what was dry, mending the smaller shirts. The other children had started to hover around her again, bringing her things that didn't really need fixing just to have an excuse to talk. She didn't push them away this time. When one of the little girls asked her to tie her hair like Lira's, she actually laughed — quiet, surprised at herself, but real.
Rion passed by and saw it, pausing for a moment near the doorway. There was a lightness in that moment that reminded him of how things used to be before the war moved closer.
Elias came up beside him. "She's different," he said under his breath.
"How so?"
"She doesn't talk much, but she listens. People like that."
Rion nodded, eyes still on her. "Yeah. Guess they do."
He didn't say what he really thought — that Lira didn't just listen, she watched. Like she was measuring everything: how they moved, how they smiled, how they managed to stay human in a place that kept trying to take that away.
That night, they all sat outside after dinner, the sky clear for the first time in days. The stars were faint but steady. Someone had brought out a few candles from the storeroom, and their small flames made the yard glow just enough to see each other's faces.
Elias talked about how he'd one day join the knights, waving his stick like a sword. Seren rolled his eyes but didn't argue. Rion just listened, leaning back against the wall, his legs stretched out and his head tilted slightly toward the sky.
Lira sat a bit apart, scarf still around her neck, fingers tracing the edges of the fabric.
"You always wear that," Rion said after a while, his voice quiet enough that only she heard.
She nodded. "It was given to me by someone from the church."
"You still believe?"
The question hung between them for a moment.
"I used to," she said softly. "I thought faith could fix everything if I just prayed enough. But it doesn't stop wars, or hunger, or…" She stopped, looking away. "It doesn't stop anything."
Rion didn't try to argue. "Maybe it's not supposed to."
She looked back at him. "Then what is it for?"
He thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. "Maybe it's just there to remind you what you wanted to believe, even if you can't anymore."
That answer didn't make much sense to her, but it wasn't empty either. It was simple, like everything about him — the way he smiled, the way he spoke, the way he made the smallest things sound like they mattered.
When the others started heading inside, Lira stayed outside a little longer. The night air was cool, and the sky was quiet enough that she could hear the faint creak of the old windmill down the hill. Rion was still sweeping again, slow, methodical, even though there wasn't much left to clean.
"You sweep every night?" she asked again.
"Habit," he said.
"From before?"
He nodded. "When I was little, the old caretaker said if I kept the yard clean, good things would find their way here. I guess I just never stopped believing that."
She smiled faintly. "And did they?"
He looked at her for a long moment before replying. "Yeah. I think one just did."
It took her a second to realize what he meant, and by the time she did, he had already turned back to sweeping.
She stood there a while longer, watching him under the faint light from the window, before finally heading inside.
That night, when the children had gone to sleep, she lay awake on the small cot they'd given her. Her hands were sore, her body tired, but her chest felt lighter than it had in weeks. The scarf lay beside her pillow, neatly folded — not clutched in her hands like before.
In the silence, she thought about the boy who smiled too much, the one who swept the dirt away as if it mattered, and she wondered what kind of person still believed that kind of hope was worth keeping.
The next morning, when the sun came up and light spilled across the broken yard, Rion was already outside. He was fixing the fence again, hammering in uneven nails, whistling off-key. Lira stepped out, hair still damp from washing, and for the first time since she arrived, she smiled before he did.
And just like that, the world felt a little less tired.