The night was young and all the citizens of Archeko slept peacefully, safely tucked within the walls of their homes. Most were unaware of the horrors that continued to embrace this country like a protective, grieving mother that refuses to let go of her stillborn. 

The rain cried. Every tear knocked on the window in a steady but gradually escalating to a faster rhythm, as if it were composing a song. 

Pitter, pitter, patter. 

It was always raining here. 

As always, without fail, as if it was trying to wash away the foulness that it had for the past few centuries—but it clung, refusing to leave.

The night continued to provide a false comfort, lulling its victims to sleep and some, to their last breaths. 

Chris remained in the orphanage, sitting in the rocking chair. Sleep seems to have no plans to visit him anytime soon—his mind shrouded in darkness, just like this room. It was dimly lit by the flames of the small candles, providing almost nothing, but comfort, as he stayed in this unfamiliar place.

For him, it was always a challenge to try and rest in places where he had not been before—especially since the Trumpets continued to warm up his thighs, as if a gentle warning.

Chris decided to enjoy this rare solitary time to himself.

‘I love when it's this late, no one is awake but me,’ he thought as he closed his eyes.

‘No one, other than my own thoughts, could haunt me.’ He probably spoke too early as he realised—no, remembered that he was here for a reason, but for what again? His thoughts were hazy, as if covered in a veil.

Chris felt like he was underwater—lightheaded. He could feel his tiredness creeping in—starting from his toes, reaching to his shoulders, when his body twitched. 

He groaned as he sat up properly. 

It felt like hours passed, but he soon realised that nothing—not even a single nail—had dropped on the iron plate where the candle ladder with it stood, on the windowsill of the area he stayed in. 

He yawned, standing up, then he walked to where his room was, supposedly—it was a bit hard finding the way to it. The area was not well defined due to the darkness, but he eventually located it.

He slumped on the bed, making a soft thump with his own weight. He didn’t even change his clothes, he just laid on his stomach for a minute, and his legs kneeled against the wooden creaking boards. 

Chris was soon cradled by his own tiredness, his eyes tightly shut—completely forgetting how uncomfortable his position was.  One of his deepest desires was to fully rest his mind and soul—perhaps, God heard his prayers—

No, he did not—but surely, the Trumpet did.

Leila’s room was just beside the guest room. She knew that staying in the orphanage for a longer time could cause one to get weak – she just grew accustomed to it. After all, she has been here for the longest time. Her room was simple and there were no other kids sleeping in with her, since she was older. 

Those who were aged fifteen and above got the privilege to pick their own rooms—providing them with privacy and safe space to decompress—whether they needed it or not. 

She had an oak table at the corner, which faced the window—it was cluttered with books she either never read or returned to the library—and a tarot card. 

Leila kept the tarot cards well hidden amongst other things, knowing Mama Nana would give out to her...blasphemy, it would be labelled.

A heretic, she would be called.

Those tarot cards were the result of demons tempting humans to use their sacred energy, given by God to spread his name—however she knew the truth—there was no God, but only the devil. It lived in everyone’s heart, clouding one’s senses and rationality. 

She remained on her bed. It was not as comfy as those ones that the nobles like Henry had, but it was fine. Beggars can't be choosers—that, she learned at a very young age. She hated vegetables, but Nana forced her to eat them so she could, quoting Nana—‘so you could become taller, Leila!’

She groaned as she reminisced about the past; how she pretended to be a child, to be an orphan—to remain here in this orphanage.

It was painful, but worth it. She was finally getting answers to the questions she had; about the missing children, the murder—the enigma that never ceased.

Leila winced, turning left and right. She remained laying on her bed, her sheets messy and her blanket tightly wrapped around her.

Her usual brunette hair slowly turned red, like a fire that refuses to be forgotten, to be extinguished—just like her tribe did—and a soft laugh soon escaped her lips.

“Perhaps, Nana was right—the devil does exist within this country—and that I am one of them.” She murmured, as she reigned the conflicting feelings that continued to arise within her own system, hands grasping on her duvet. Her real memories continued to flash inside her mind, leaving her scarred and maimed.

Trembling, her eyebrows furrowed, as she refused to open her eyes again—she knew she would meet those eyes filled with hatred, not for her—but for those who had taken their lives and names.

Every child had their own dreams.

For Nana, it was to live a life that she was in control of. She left the convent and took the position of being the mother figure to these children, who grew up without parental love. 

She knew she was a hypocrite—how could she share love, when she doesn't even know how it feels?

Like a puppet following its puppeteers’ instructions, she walked down the hall with a purpose. Her body moved on its own, and the only thing that remained hers was her heart—heart, that was full of envy and hatred, towards those who created the word ‘love.’ 

Love?

Love.

Her every step was heavy, just like her own mind. Hazy, and lightheaded. The walk to her room seemed long—her hand held the knob, and she turned it open. She entered, then she closed the door with a soft thud. 

Her eyes were empty, as if free from any thoughts—it was silent, yet her ears rang. She blinked. She knows this feeling too well—her stomach churned every time she went down the basement, seeing how inhumane it was; but it was necessary, necessary to keep herself safe. 

If not, she would be the one in that position—much worse than what that was.

Her room was grand, compared to others—adorned with some religious paintings such as The Last Supper. There was a simple cross hung on the middle of her bed, though the only problem was—it was upside down. Her walls were pristine and clean, but within the cracks—there hid the foulness, the stench that she hoped no one would ever find and see. 

The blood of those children that she had no choice but to kill; not for her own enjoyment—but for her own survival.

Nana trembled.

Her breath was laboured, and her chest tightened. It was time again. She remained standing in the middle of her room—it was hers, but it wasn't. Nothing in this room was hers—

Even her body wasn't. 

Click. 

The metal that was struck on the candle dropped on the metal plate, signalling an hour has passed. Nana was sure everyone would be asleep by this time—and, once again, she mustered her courage to venture down to the place she'd rather keep hidden forever: the basement.

She held the wardrobe door open; it creaked, causing her to bite her lip. Her eyes travelled to the floor. A hidden latch. A trap door, painted the same – blending perfectly. She kneeled and she held the metal knob delicately, holding her breath, then she pulled it upwards. 

She was greeted by nothingness, but the stench never lied. The ladder led her to the depths, where the secrets lay—she plunged.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Her every step echoed and the squeaking of the metal latch reverberated as it slowly, ominously, shut close. 

Nana knew her bounds—this was one of her duties as the Orphanage’s mother, after all.