The orphanage stood atop the hill like a weathered relic of gentler times, its old stone walls laced with ivy and faded sun-dressed charm. Morning light poured over its slanted roof and caught the glint of its glass panes, streaked and imperfect, but still stubbornly intact after decades. A copper wind-chime clinked softly near the leaves, dancing lazily in the breeze.

Pell trudged up the cobbled path, the heavy sack of rittertops slung over his shoulder. Each step of his, scattering dry leaves along the walkway. The iron gate creaked open with a familiar grate, and the sound alone sent a ripple of excitement through the courtyard.

A shriek of childish laughter rang out.

"Look! It's the angry dirt man!" one of the children cried from behind a crooked planter box.

"He's back again!" another shouted, ducking behind the stump of a chopped-down orange-tree.

A cluster of children, some barefoot, others in some in oversized tunics, all scampered into the yard like mice freed from hiding. They circled Pell with wild energy, giggling and chanting nonsense as they tugged at the frayed hem of his ragged coat.

"You lot better scram before I chuck you into the compost pit!" Pell growled, adjusting the sack on his shoulder. "Knock it off, you brats!"

But his bark lacked bite, and the children only howled louder. One boy dared to poke the side of Pell's boot with a stick.

"Smells like moldy soup!" the boy announced, before sprinting away as Pell made a half-hearted lunge after him.

"Rot in a ditch," Pell muttered under his breath, brushing dust off his sleeve as another child ran behind him and mimicked his grumbling voice with theatrical exaggeration.

"Rot in a ditch," she repeated, their voices low, despite not carrying any bass in pitch.

From the front porch of the orphanage, a voice called out, soft, yet loud enough for all to hear.

"That's enough, everyone. Inside now."

The effect was immediate. The children whined in protest, but began to scatter and retreat toward the door, though a few cast cheeky glances back as they went. Pell turned to see her standing in the doorway, hands folded neatly before her.

Elara.

She wore a faded blue blouse with linen skirts, her auburn hair braided to one side, a strand or two already undone by the morning wind. She stepped forward, shoes crunching gently against the path.

"You shouldn't threaten the kids like that," she said, tilting her head with a look that managed to be both amused and reproachful. "They're still impressionable, you know."

"They're still monsters," Pell muttered, hoisting the sack down from his shoulder. "You should've let me throw one. Ain't that strong, but I could probably manage ten meters."

She rolled her eyes, but her smile softened. "They like you. Probably more than they should."

Pell scoffed. "Then you've clearly failed to teach them proper survival instincts. Liking me won't do nothing but make their lives miserable."

"You don't think that," she replied.

"Yeah, I don't. I know that."

Elara stepped closer and gestured toward the sack.

"You brought more?"

Pell gave a grunt and nudged the bag toward her.

"Rittertops. Good haul today. Took the big ones from the back field. Should last you a week, maybe more."

She bent to untie the sack and peeked inside. The vegetables were firm and fresh, with clean root-ends and none of the rot you found in market scraps. Her fingers traced one absently before she looked up again.

"You really didn't have to, Pell. The last batch was already generous."

"I didn't do it for praise."

"I know. Still…" She straightened, brushing dust from her hands. "Thank you. The kids are eating better because of you."

Pell scratched the back of his neck, awkwardly averting his gaze from her. "Don't go getting sentimental. It's just food. That's all I'm good for nowadays."

They stood there for a moment in the quiet morning, the orphanage behind them murmuring with faint noise. Birds chirped in the nearby trees. Somewhere, a cart creaked down the road.

In the doorway, Pell noticed several small heads peeking through, spying on them. His face soured.

Meddling brats. So damn annoying.

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Finally, Elara gestured toward the porch. "Come inside for tea? You're already here. Might as well sit down for a while before you head back."

Pell hesitated. Then grunted, stooping low to pick up the sack. "Only if the tea's stronger than the company."

"You'll have to make do, then. No one really puts alcohol in tea," she said with a chuckle.

She turned and headed back. The small heads vanished at once, and the sound of running footsteps inside the building followed. The door creaked open as Elara disappeared into the warmth of the old house. Pell followed, muttering curses at a small girl who waved to him from the stairs. Then, she stuck out her tongue at him.

"I hope you stub your toe on a chair!" he snapped—the corner of his mouth frowning, just faintly.

The girl then ran away laughing; a suit of accompanying laughs came from deeper down the hall.

A warm breeze drifted through the orphanage yard as Pell followed Elara inside, the sack of rittertops slung over his back like an old burden he couldn't shake. The inside had changed little over the years. Same wooden floors, sanded down uneven by generations of stomping shoes. Same creaky rafters up top where birds sometimes nested if the attic shutters were left open. The walls still held faint outlines of chalk drawings from children long gone, scrubbed countless times, but never quite erased.

It was a place that clung to memory whether you wanted it to or not. Especially one where he spent more time in, than his actual real home.

Elara led him through the entry hall, where rows of shoes and boots were neatly lined against the wall, save for a few rogue pairs tossed aside in haste. Children's laughter echoed faintly from the back rooms—some chasing each other, others finishing chores, the usual storm of mischief and routine.

Pell kept his head down as they passed the kitchen. One of the older boys peered over the doorway and whispered, "It's the grump again."

"Elara's friend?"

"I heard he kidnaps and eats bad kids. That's what the sack is for."

"Shut up, he's right there!"

Their snickering faded behind him, and he rolled his eyes.

"Elara," he muttered, "if one of those little monsters throws a pebble at me again, I swear—"

"You'll what? Curse their ears off?" she teased, glancing over her shoulder.

He snorted but didn't answer.

They entered the storeroom just past the hall. It was cooler here, shaded by thick walls and crisscrossed ceiling beams. Barrels of flour and sacks of lentils lined one wall, and wooden crates of preserved fruits and dried meats filled the shelves on the other.

Pell knelt beside the pantry shelf and gently eased the sack down. He untied the top and rolled it open, revealing the earthy vegetables packed tight.

"Thirty-two rittertops," he said. "Could've been thirty-three, but I lost one to a thieving bastard."

Elara blinked, then smirked. "You mean Gaius?"

"...I didn't say a name."

"You didn't need to. He stopped by yesterday. Told me you'd 'probably pay him back eventually. Some favor he owed you? He wouldn't tell me."

Pell shook his head. "Nothing important," he said, moving over to sit at a square wooden table.

She looked at him skeptically for a moment, but said nothing.

She crouched and started sorting through the sack, inspecting the produce with practiced hands. Her fingers were thin, rough from years of work, but moved with a grace that made Pell think—briefly—of Melly. Her mother had the same kind of touch, careful and deliberate.

"These'll last us a week," Elara said quietly. "I appreciate it, Pell."

He gave a half-scoffed grunt.. "You're the one feeding half the town's orphans. I'm just trying to keep them from starving."

She gave him a sideways glance. "You always say that, but I know you could've sold these in the market."

"Yeah, well. Those monsters need 'em more than those silk-sleeved peddlers." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Besides, you guilted me into it years ago when we were young."

"I didn't guilt you."

"You did. With those big eyes. And the way you kept sighing like the world was ending."

"I was twelve."

"Exactly," he said, elbow on table, arm laying flat. "Formative years. Scarred me for life."

"You're older than me, Pell. You were a teen, almost an adult when I did that."

"You try not being guilted into helping out by the wide-eyed daughter of your own caretaker," he rebutted.

She laughed softly behind him.

"Thanks again, Pell," she said, standing as well. "I mean it."

"So," he muttered, eyes flicking toward the window, "how bad is it this time?"

Elara didn't answer at first. She sat across from him, hands folded in her lap. "It's manageable."

Pell raised an eyebrow. "You said that last time. Then I came back and found three of the kids sick with no heat for the hearth."

She sighed. "I know. But what else am I supposed to say? If I start screaming about it, nothing changes. And if I stay quiet, at least the children don't panic."

Pell's gaze dropped to the edge of the table. He traced a finger along the worn grain of the wood. "Is it Amberdean again?"

Elara's silence said enough.

"He's raising the orphanage taxes again," she admitted. "Claimed it was to help with town improvements. I haven't seen a single 'improvement' beyond a new banner on his hall."

Pell clenched his jaw. "And nobody's fighting it?"

"Who's going to?" she asked, her voice low. There was grief apparent on her face. "The other nobles don't care. Their statuses are much lower than Amberdean's, and they're all friends anyway. The townsfolk are too scared to speak—not like I blame them. And the guilds run on funds from the town. Messing with Amberdean is just asking for trouble."

Pell shook his head. "That bastard. Melly kept this place running on nothing but grit. And now you're supposed to do the same, with even less."

"I'm trying," Elara whispered. "I've stretched every copper I can. And your donations help. They really do. More than you think."

He didn't respond. Just stared at her for a long moment before finally speaking. "I could sell a few more things. Some of the better crops—"

"No," Elara cut in gently. "You've already given more than most."

"Doesn't mean it's enough."

She smiled faintly. "You're stubborn. Just like back then."

He grunted. "And you're still too damn soft."

A beat passed between them, quiet and familiar. Often between them, there would just be silence, something to soak in as they gathered their thoughts.

Elara stood and crossed to the shelf. She picked up a small cloth pouch and returned to the table, setting it in front of him.

"What's this?" Pell asked.

"Bread rolls," she said. "With syrupberry jam. You liked them, once."

Pell blinked, then looked away. "I still do."

"Then take them. And next time, come by when it isn't your harvest day."

"I like to keep my visits inefficient and mildly annoying. Keeps the kids guessing."

They sat in silence for a while, the warmth of the pantry and the hum of children outside wrapping around them like an old, worn blanket. Not perfect. Not even peaceful.

But real and grounded.

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