⌗ ┆ St Joseph Orphanage ★ ₊ ˚

1925 after world war

You arrive through a narrow iron gate at the end of a quiet road, the kind wide enough for cars to pass but rarely busy. The tires slow as the building comes into view, tall and heavy, made of dark red brick that looks older than anything you have ever seen. The orphanage rises ahead of you like it has been standing there forever, its walls marked by time, its windows tall and narrow, watching the yard below.

The car rolls into a small courtyard and stops. When you step out, the place feels big and unfamiliar. The ground is uneven, cracked stone surrounded by patches of overgrown plants and weeds that haven’t been taken care of in a long time. A few benches sit off to the side, worn and slightly crooked. The air smells damp, like old walls and rain that never fully dries.

You look up at the building. Pointed roofs stretch into the sky, and a small tower rises from the center, its windows dark. Some of the glass panes reflect the light, while others seem dull and cloudy. The entrance doors are wooden and tall, their surface scratched and faded from years of use. They look heavy, like they take effort to open, especially for someone your size.

Everything feels quiet. No laughter, no voices, just the distant sound of wind brushing against the brick and leaves rustling near the walls. You hold your arms close to yourself as you stand there, suddenly aware of how small you are compared to the building in front of you.

The car door closes softly behind you, the sound echoing more than it should in the empty courtyard. A man in a dark suit steps out after you. He straightens his coat against the cold, then looks down, his expression polite but distant. Without saying much, he gestures for you to follow and begins walking toward the entrance.

His shoes make a sharp sound against the stone as you cross the courtyard together. Each step brings the building closer, larger, until it feels like it fills your entire view. When he reaches the door, he opens it for you, holding it just long enough for you to pass through before following behind.

Inside, the air is warmer, thick with the smell of old wood and cleaning supplies. Your footsteps are quieter here, swallowed by the long hallway stretching ahead. The walls are lined with framed photos and notices you do not stop to read. Somewhere deeper inside, you can hear faint movement, maybe voices, maybe just doors opening and closing.

The suited man leads you to a small office near the entrance. He knocks once and opens the door.

Behind a wooden desk sits a woman, older, with her gray hair neatly tied back. She wears simple, formal clothes and glasses that rest low on her nose. Papers are stacked carefully in front of her, and a ledger lies open as if she has been expecting this moment. When she looks up and sees you, her expression softens slightly, measured but not unkind.

“So this is the child,” she says calmly, standing from her chair. As The man explains briefly, his voice low and official. You don’t catch every word, only enough to understand that he is handing responsibility over. When he finishes, he nods once to the woman, then to you. He does not linger. A moment later, the sound of the front door closing tells you he is gone.

The woman turns her full attention to you now. She crouches slightly so she is closer to your height, studying your face with quiet focus. “My name is Mrs. Hoshino,” she says. “I manage this place.”

She straightens and gestures toward the hallway behind her, long and unfamiliar. “Come. I’ll show you where you’ll be staying to sleep.”

19:03:27

The hallway feels longer than usual as you walk through it, your footsteps quiet against the worn wooden floor. The lights are dimmer here, some flickering softly above, and the smell of old walls and soap lingers in the air. Most of the doors are closed, the sounds of the orphanage muted behind them.

As you near the end of the corridor, you hear voices. At first, it sounds like laughing. Then something sharper slips through it.

You slow down, instinctively stopping just before the corner. Peeking out, you see a small group of older kids gathered near the storage room. Their shadows stretch across the wall, long and uneven. One of them is leaning against the door, arms crossed, blocking the way.

In front of them stands a younger child. Smaller than the rest. Their shoulders are hunched, hands clenched tightly at their sides. A school bag lies on the floor near their feet, one of the straps pulled loose.

“C’mon, that’s all you brought?” one of the older kids says, snickering. Another nudges the bag with their foot, pushing it just out of reach. The others laugh again, louder this time.

The smaller child shakes their head, trying to speak, but the words don’t come out right. Their face burns red, eyes fixed on the floor. You can tell they want to disappear.

Your chest tightens as you watch. No adults are around. No footsteps coming from either end of the hall. The walls seem thicker here, like they swallow sound on purpose.

One of the older kids leans down, too close, invading their space. “You should’ve stayed quiet,” they mutter, not loud enough for anyone else to hear.

The noise reaches you before you see anything. Raised voices, sharp and angry, cutting through the usual quiet of the evening. You slow your steps as you move down the hallway, your stomach tightening with every word you don’t fully catch.

When you reach the common room, you see them. Two older kids stand facing each other near the tables, fists clenched, shoulders tense. A chair has been knocked over beside them. Other children hover nearby, unsure whether to step in or back away.

“It wasn’t yours,” one of them snaps, voice shaking with more than anger.

The other shoves them hard in the chest. It happens fast. Too fast. They stumble back, hit the table, and then both of them are grappling, hands grabbing sleeves and collars. Someone yells for them to stop. Someone else runs down the hall, probably to get an adult.