Chapter 52: 52 What have you done

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52: What have you done?

52: What have you done?

The news spread quickly through the orphanage corridors, carried by each of the nineteen children returning from the kitchen to their rooms: there was a newcomer named Kairan; he had finished his kitchen chores faster than Renoir himself and handled a knife with a level of skill none of them had ever seen in a child let alone one who had arrived only the night before.

Reactions varied from room to room: some immediately believed the story, others were intrigued but cautious, while others dismissed it all as yet another exaggeration destined to fade by evening.

Yet, in every room, Kairan’s name began to circulate, accompanied by a curiosity to see that very afternoon if there was any truth to the rumors.

Before leaving the kitchen, Kairan stopped in the changing area to hang up his apron and put his clothes back on that simple, soft garment, almost like pajamas, which all the children at the orphanage wore when not busy with chores.

Kairan was shorter than average for his age, yet his body was already muscular without being bulky; his shoulders and arms were unusually well-defined for a child his age.

Wavy black hair, parted down the middle, framed his face as it fell to the sides.

His blue eyes marked by fine black lines radiating like petals around the pupils were a distinctive feature that no one could help but notice upon meeting him.

He entered the room still carrying the lingering scent of vegetables and broth.

Amara dropped the sock she had been wringing out and was upon him before he could even close the door, wrapping her arms around his neck a quick but intense embrace.

“You’re back,” she said, as if he’d been gone for days rather than just the morning.

“How did it go in the kitchen?” “Fine,” Kairan replied, unperturbed by the hug, though he didn’t pull away.

Amara stepped back slightly but stayed close, her hand still resting on his arm.

“Just fine?” Peter was holding a needle; he was mending a tear in his sleeve with clumsy stitches.

“Renoir didn’t yell at you even once?” “No.” “Strange.” He went back to his sewing.

“He usually yells over much less.” “He’s kind,” Kairan said.

Amara spun around, though she didn’t let go of Kairan’s arm.

“Renoir?” “Yes.” “Renoir…

kind.” “He was with me.” Gregory chuckled from his bed.

“Sure.

You arrived yesterday and he’s already treating you like a son.” “He didn’t treat me like a son.” “It was a joke, just a joke.” Kairan sat on the edge of the bed and Amara settled down next to him, closer than necessary; her shoulder brushed against his.

He looked at the others, one by one.

“And you?

How did it go?” There was a moment of silence, as if the question had caught them off guard.

“At the laundry?” Amara shrugged, without moving away from him.

“Cold.

There was a girl from 210 who kept complaining because the water was giving her chilblains.

By the tenth time, I told her to go complain directly to the water.” “And her?” “She looked at me as if I’d said something absurd.

Then she kept complaining anyway.” Peter laughed.

“Clara and I scrubbed the floors in the north wing.” “Nothing much…

except when I slipped with the bucket and got half a liter of dirty water in the face.” “That’s not true,” Clara said, without looking up from her book.

“It is true!” “The water landed on your pants.

Not your face.” “Fine, on my pants.

The point is, it happened.” Gregory sat up, stretching his back with a grimace.

“I just hauled wood.

My arms are wrecked.

Samuel helped me, but he kept stopping every two minutes.” “Not every two minutes,” Samuel said, embarrassed.

“Fine, every five.” “There was one piece that was too heavy,” Samuel said in his own defense.

“You stopped too.” “I stop because I want to; you stop because you can’t handle it.” “That’s not true.” Gregory ruffled his hair not meanly, but Samuel pulled away anyway, pouting.

Victor, leaning against the wall, simply said, “Courtyard.

Leaves.” No one asked for further details, because that was more or less his standard answer, and by now, no one was surprised by it anymore.

Lena had remained silent until it was her turn.

“The bathrooms,” she said, grimacing.

“There isn’t much to tell.

They always smell the same.” “The same as what?” Peter asked, perhaps just to keep the conversation going.

“Like bathrooms,” Lena replied, and someone laughed not so much at the joke itself, but at the deadpan tone she had used.

Kairan was listening with Amara still leaning against the his shoulder.

“And the knife?” Amara asked, turning back to him, her hand gripping his arm lightly as if to emphasize the question.

“Did they let you use a real knife on the first day?” “Yes.” “And they didn’t say anything?

Like, ‘be careful,’ or ‘don’t cut yourself’?” “Renoir just asked if I knew how to use one.” “And you?” “I said yes.” “And did you?” Kairan thought about it for a moment.

“Yes.” Peter put down his needle, curious now.

“How come?

It’s not like you just show up from nowhere already knowing how to use a knife even if you’d only ever chopped vegetables before.” “I don’t know,” Kairan said, and in a way, it was true.

Peter looked at him for a moment, as if expecting more, then let it drop.

A bell rang in the distance, and Amara, rising from Kairan’s bed, pulled him up by the wrist as if it were a given that they should move together.

“Let’s go, I’m starving.” “Always,” Peter said.

“Always what?” “You’re always starving.” “So?” They all got up together, a bit haphazardly: Gregory still stretching his back, Clara tucking a bookmark between the pages before closing her book, Victor unsticking himself from the wall without haste.

“Watch out for bathroom duty,” Peter said as they left.

“It’s your turn next Monday, Kairan.

Get ready.” “All right,” Kairan said.

“You don’t look worried at all.” “Why should I be?” Peter shook his head, chuckling softly, and the group continued walking toward the common room; Amara stayed by Kairan’s side the whole way, her arm linked through his, while the others’ voices mingled around them.