Lein stood at the door for a moment, then reached out and pushed open the creaking wooden door.
In the foyer, a dim oil lamp barely illuminated the uneven concrete floor underfoot.
There was a lingering musty smell in the air, mixed with the pungent odor of cheap soap.
Several patches of lime had peeled off the walls, revealing dark brown brick joints underneath.
A long bench with a broken corner stood against the wall, coated with a thin layer of dust.
This orphanage had been converted from a church.
After the Anti-Faith Movement, the Royal Family seized a large number of unclaimed church properties.
One of them, a small chapel located in what was now the Eastern District, was allocated to City Hall for housing orphans displaced by famine and plague.
The original statues inside the church were smashed and removed, the main hall was partitioned into dormitories, the basement was turned into a kitchen, and the bell tower was sealed off for good… and so St. Claire Orphanage was born.
For the first decade or so, it was managed directly by City Hall, and at least someone was assigned to maintain and repair it.
But as the city expanded, the Eastern District gradually devolved into Ash Lane.
The orphanage changed hands several times, falling under the Health Management Office, then the Relief Agency, then back to the Health Management Office—each new overseer caring even less than the last.
By around the year 140 of the New Calendar, funding had been slashed to an absurd figure: City Hall allocated eighty kingdom gold coins to St. Claire Orphanage annually.
Spread across each month, that was less than seven gold coins, or about a hundred and forty silver coins.
This hundred and forty silver coins had to cover basic repairs for a dilapidated three-story building, pay the caretaker’s wages, and feed over twenty growing mouths.
The result was predictable.
Two dormitories on the east side of the second floor had long been abandoned due to roof leaks.
The pipes in the bathroom at the end of the hallway had been completely clogged for four years, so the children still bathed with well water in the backyard.
The long tables in the first-floor dining hall were missing several corners, and the wooden stools were cobbled together from all sorts of sources, varying in height.
Lein crossed the foyer and walked deeper inside.
Flanking the corridor were several closed doors, each hiding a room crammed with children.
A faint glow seeped through some of the cracks, while others were pitch black—because lamp oil cost money, and the unspoken rule of the orphanage was to blow out the candles at nightfall.
He turned into a large room at the end of the hallway.
This was the orphanage’s dining hall, essentially just a room with a few long tables and a pile of wooden stools.
The walls were papered with yellowed old newspapers, and cobwebs hung in the ceiling corners.
A dozen children sat around the tables, each with a chipped tin bowl in front of them filled with a grayish-brown mush—probably made from peas, crushed wheat, and potato peels, giving off a sour, unappetizing smell.
A middle-aged woman sitting at the far end noticed Lein.
Her face showed no expression; she just nodded.
That was Mrs. Grace, the current manager of the orphanage.
A thin woman with prominent cheekbones, her hair wrapped in a gray cloth, and her eyes carrying the dull weariness of a life ground down by hardship.
She had spent nearly fifteen years in this gray building, transforming from a relatively young widow into the person she was now.
Under her watch, St. Claire Orphanage had neither improved nor worsened.
It just kept going, like Ash Lane itself, surviving slowly in a suffocating equilibrium.
Lein felt neither close to nor repulsed by Mrs. Grace.
She wasn’t a kind person—hitting and scolding the children was routine, and skimping on rations was nothing unusual.
But at least she kept the doors open, providing a roof for children with nowhere else to go.
In Ash Lane, that counted as rare kindness.
For as long as Lein could remember, he had been crowded in here with a bunch of older and younger kids.
Back then, the orphanage was even poorer.
A dozen people were stuffed into one room, sleeping on moldy straw mats spread over a communal bed.
There was no stove in winter, so the children had to huddle together for warmth.
There was never enough food, and the older kids used their fists to snatch the meager rations from the younger ones.
The adults were no better—either hitting or yelling, never caring about these orphans.
Because of that, Lein had learned early on that fists were the only universal language.
He often used them to avoid disputes.
His better memories of this place came from a scrawny old man.
No one knew his real name; the children all called him Old Walter.
Mrs. Grace had picked him up from somewhere as a homeless vagrant and let him do odd jobs at the orphanage in exchange for meals.
Old Walter was responsible for chopping wood, hauling coal cinders, boiling water, patching leaking roofs, and occasionally looking after the younger children.
His skills were mediocre, but his storytelling was top-notch.
Every evening, Old Walter would sit on the doorstep, using the last bit of daylight to slowly spin tales of wonder for the children.
His voice wasn’t pleasant—it was even a bit grating—but the kids listened intently, and even the most mischievous among them would quiet down.
Lein still remembered one story Old Walter told:
Long ago, humans built a tower that reached the sky, so close to the stars that you could reach out and touch them from the top.
The scholars in the tower used candlelight to illuminate the entire world, and knowledge poured down from the tower’s peak like water, flowing into every corner.
“And then?”
the young Lein had pressed.
“And then…”
Old Walter grinned his ugly grin.
“Then the tower collapsed. Don’t be surprised. That day was bound to come.”
Old Walter died one winter.
There was no one by his side when he passed.
The next morning, when he was found, his body was already cold.
Mrs. Grace had someone wrap him in a straw mat and carry him away, and no one knew where he was buried.
Lein was about seven or eight at the time, and for the first time, he truly felt the fragility of life, and understood what death meant.
It was like Old Walter had said—that day was bound to come.
Death was that kind of thing.
Not long after that, Lein beat up a group of bullies much older than him, then climbed over the orphanage’s back wall and ran away.
Lein snapped out of his memories.
‘I once went out of my way to escape this place, but now I keep coming back. What is it that drives me to do this?’
he wondered.
A few of the children noticed him.
Even though they were hungry, they greeted him warmly, forgetting their food and crowding around him.
Lein had to respond to each one, promising to bring them treats or tell them stories next time.
After coaxing them to sit back down and eat, Lein turned and walked out.
He waited outside for a while.
Before long, Mrs. Grace appeared, her eyes fixed on him with a glimmer of hope and pleading, but mostly numbness.
Lein pulled out a small stuffed pouch and handed it to her.
She grabbed it as if it were a lifeline.
The pouch contained just some money.
The orphanage’s funding was frighteningly low—it couldn’t survive without help from others.
Quite a few people in Ash Lane occasionally sent things over or offered assistance.
But as far as Lein knew, he was the only one who had grown up here and actually chose to come back.
He nodded, said nothing, and left.
The night wind stung his cheeks, and he realized that winter had already arrived.