Another week went by. Priest Grant stepped out of the orphanage leading the children to the side of the building. They carried boxes in preparation for the work of the day. They turned the corner and saw the nearly completed wall. It was almost finished with a few parts left to patch up and the roof to fill in. Paint was brought out to cover the walls and plaster to seal them.

“I understand that this is a long time coming. The interior is almost done as well. Next week none of you should be sleeping four to a room anymore. Today though instead of a lesson. We will be working on cleaning up the outside of this place. Maybe making it more of a home.”

They split off into groups depending on their assignment. Some chose to work alone without distractions. Greg found himself with a paintbrush working to match the side of the building with the entrance. The weather was overcast and nice for a change. The work as well was uncomplicated.

The wall, which had been under construction for some time, was nearing completion. Only a few sections remained that needed patching, a task that was tackled with a mix of plaster and determination. The children, under Priest Grant's supervision, had turned their attention to these final imperfections, filling in the gaps with a careful application of plaster. The mixture was spread evenly, ensuring that the wall would not only be strong but also smooth and ready for painting.

They each had a role to play and most of them eagerly took it up. Even the youngest children assisted by delivering supplies to where they were needed.

Greg started with the spots that had been worn down the most. They had been hit with rain, snow, dirt, and scrapes over the years. Greg continued painting the wall, his brush strokes steadily and even. The overcast sky provided a comfortable atmosphere for the work, and he found himself getting lost in the repetitive motion of the brush against the worn surface.

As he painted, Greg took in the surroundings of the orphanage. The building itself was old but sturdy, with a sense of history etched into its weathered stones. He felt the wall underneath the brush strokes. The grounds were modest, with a small garden plot where the children could learn to grow vegetables and herbs. A few ancient trees stood sentinel, their branches reaching out to provide shade and shelter.

The roof, much like the wall, required attention. The children were not directly involved in the more dangerous aspects of roofing, but they watched as skilled workers carefully positioned the shingles, nailing them into place. The sound of hammers echoed through the air, a rhythmic beat that signified progress. The roof's completion was crucial, as it would provide much-needed shelter and warmth, especially during the harsher seasons.

Despite the simplicity of the orphanage, there was a sense of community and belonging. The children worked together, their laughter and chatter filling the air as they went about their tasks. Priest Grant moved among them, offering guidance and encouragement, his presence a comforting constant in their lives. It certainly felt better than the work with Priest Damon. He shuddered at the thought.

As he worked, Greg's mind wandered to the significance of the task at hand. Painting the orphanage wasn't just about making it look nice; it was about creating a sense of home and belonging for the children who lived there. Many of them had come from difficult backgrounds, having lost their parents or experienced hardship. The orphanage was their sanctuary, a place where they could feel safe and cared for. Greg understood the importance of this firsthand. He had arrived at the orphanage as a young boy, scared and alone. But over time, he had found a family among the other children. Even against the backdrop of difficult adults.

Greg looked to the other children working on the wall. They were happy and relaxed. The day was nice.

Priest Grant approached, placing a hand on Greg's shoulder. "Well done, my boy," he said, his voice filled with pride. "You've done a fine job here today."

Greg smiled, feeling a sense of accomplishment wash over him. "Thank you ," he replied. "It's been great to be a part of this."

“Would you like to touch up the sign as well?” asked Priest Grant. “The lettering on the sign has faded. It could use some love.”

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Greg nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Sure, I can do that," he said, his voice steady despite the fatigue setting in from the day's labor.

The sign in question hung crookedly at the entrance of the orphanage, its once-vibrant colors dulled by the relentless sun and harsh weather conditions. The letters, which once proudly proclaimed "Henoes Orphanage," were now barely legible, the paint chipped and faded from years of neglect.

Greg fetched a small ladder from the storage shed and set it up beneath the sign. He climbed up, paintbrush in hand, and began the meticulous work of restoring the sign to its former glory. The task was simple yet required a steady hand and a keen eye for detail. He started to restore the sign. Its letters were nearly gone. Only from up close could he see the signs of the original words.

The faded letters slowly began to regain their boldness as Greg applied a fresh coat of white paint. He chose a vibrant blue for the background, a color that would stand out against the stone facade of the building. The contrast was striking, and even with the overcast sky, the sign began to shine with a renewed sense of purpose. The faded ‘r’ in Henoes was filled in returning it to its former glory.

Finally, the sign was complete. The letters "Henoes Orphanage" stood out boldly, a declaration of the safe space behind its walls. Some children had looked over at what he was doing. Greg stepped back, the children clustering around him, all of them admiring the handiwork.

"It looks amazing, Greg!" exclaimed a young girl, her pigtails bouncing as she hopped up and down with excitement. "You made it look like new again!"

Greg grinned, basking in the praise of his fellow orphans. "Thanks," he said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I just did my best.”

The children's faces lit up with pride as they took in the newly painted sign. It was a small change, but it symbolized so much more to them. It was a reminder that they were part of something special, a community that cared and worked together to create a better environment for everyone.

As the day drew to a close, the children gathered their tools and cleaned up the area. The sense of accomplishment was palpable, and even the overcast sky seemed to brighten a bit as the last of the paint was put away.

Priest Grant gathered the children around him, his eyes sweeping over the group with a warm smile. "Today, you've all done something wonderful," he began, his voice carrying a tone of gratitude. "Not only have you helped improve our home, but you've also shown what we can achieve when we work together. This sign," he gestured towards the freshly painted emblem, "is a symbol of our unity and strength."

The children nodded, their expressions a mix of fatigue and satisfaction. Greg, standing a bit apart, felt a swell of pride in his chest. He had contributed to something that would welcome future generations to the orphanage, a beacon of hope and belonging.

As the children dispersed, heading inside for a well-deserved rest, Greg lingered for a moment longer. The orphanage, with its new sign and freshly painted walls, looked different to him. It was warmer and more inviting. Though at the same time he grew frustrated knowing what lay inside. The need for change still lingered. Priest Grant could promote positive change, but the man behind him still lingered.

Greg's eyes traced the contours of the newly painted sign, the vibrant blue and stark white a stark contrast to the grey sky above. The orphanage, with its fresh coat of paint and the promise of improved living conditions, seemed to stand a little taller, a little prouder. But as the children's laughter and chatter faded behind the closing doors, Greg's thoughts turned inward to the darker corners of the orphanage that no amount of paint could brighten.

Inside, the halls echoed with the footsteps of the past, each creak of the floorboards a reminder of the years of history contained within these walls. Greg knew that history well, the good and the bad. He knew the kindness of Priest Grant, whose gentle guidance had steered many children towards brighter futures. But he also knew the shadow that Priest Damon cast, a looming presence that could turn the warmth of the orphanage cold with a single word.

Greg's hands clenched into fists at his sides, the frustration bubbling up inside him. Change was happening, yes, but it was slow, and not all change was for the better. The new wall, the roof repairs, the painted sign—these were all surface improvements. The real change needed to come from within, from the very heart of the orphanage itself.

As he stood there, lost in thought, a soft voice broke through his reverie. "Greg?" It was Ash, one of the younger orphans, her small hand tugging at the hem of his shirt. "Are you okay? You seem distracted.”

Greg forced a smile and knelt down to her level. "Yeah, Ash, I'm fine. Just thinking about how much this place has changed since I first got here."

“I know right. The garden was a mess before I arrived. It’s nice that some other areas are getting some love as well.”

"It's getting there," Greg replied, ruffling her hair affectionately. "But it's not just about fixing things on the outside. It's about making sure everyone inside feels safe and happy too."

“I know that. The orphanage always needs something added or removed from it. Even if it has been here longer than we have.”

"You are right. Come on," Greg said, standing up and offering his hand. "Let's go inside. Dinner will be ready soon.”