R. City Orphanage

The R. City Orphanage stands at the end of Maple Avenue like a weathered sentinel from another era—a three-story Victorian structure of aged red brick and white-trimmed windows, its architecture speaking to an age when buildings were constructed to endure generations rather than decades. The building sprawls across nearly half an acre of property, its footprint irregular and organic, the result of additions built over the course of a century. A wraparound porch circles the front and east side, the wooden boards worn smooth by countless small feet, the paint peeling in places where rain has found purchase. Iron railings, painted black but showing rust at the joints, line the porch steps—seven of them, slightly uneven, leading up to a heavy oak door with a brass knocker shaped like a lion's head.

Inside, the main hallway stretches deep into the building's heart, hardwood floors creaking underfoot with that particular music old houses make. The walls are painted a warm cream color, though the paint has yellowed near the ceiling where decades of warmth from the radiators has risen. Framed photographs line the corridor—black and white images from the 1940s mixing with faded color prints from the 80s and 90s, all depicting children who once called this place home. A grandfather clock stands against the wall near the staircase, its pendulum swinging with metronomic patience, chiming on the quarter hour with a sound that echoes through the building like a heartbeat. The staircase itself is broad, the banister worn to a honey-gold patina by thousands of hands sliding down it over the years.

The common room occupies the building's eastern wing, furnished with mismatched couches and armchairs—donations accumulated over time, nothing matching but everything functional. A stone fireplace dominates the far wall, the mantle cluttered with handmade crafts and a few trophies from school sports teams. The windows here are tall, stretching nearly floor to ceiling, letting afternoon light spill across worn Persian rugs in shades of burgundy and blue. A television sits in one corner, the screen scratched, the remote held together with electrical tape. Bookshelves line the walls between windows, stuffed with dog-eared paperbacks, board games with missing pieces, and jigsaw puzzles in boxes that have lost their lids.

The dining hall connects to the kitchen through a swinging door, the kind with a circular porthole window clouded by years of steam. Long wooden tables with bench seating fill the space, capable of accommodating perhaps forty children at capacity. The ceiling here is lower, pressed tin tiles painted white, a few showing water stains from a leak repaired years ago. The kitchen beyond is institutional but homey—commercial stainless steel appliances alongside ceramic cookie jars and a refrigerator covered in children's drawings held by alphabet magnets.

Upstairs, the dormitory wings branch in two directions. The hallways are narrower here, the carpet a practical dark green that hides stains. Doors line both sides, each leading to rooms that house two to four beds depending on size. The rooms themselves are simple—metal-frame beds with quilted coverlets, small wooden dressers, closets with sliding doors that stick in their tracks. Windows look out over the backyard, where a rusted swing set stands beside an ancient oak tree with a tire swing dangling from its lowest branch. The rooms are shared by 4 kids, usually of similar age and same gender. All rooms have a single bathroom 4 people must share

All Male kids wear the same type of long white nightshirt with long sleeves, all girls wear a white Victorian styled nightgowns with long sleeves. Everyone knows eachother in the orphanage, some not so well but have the general idea. Everyone has roommates.