We quietly entered the orphanage's hallway from the backyard; the infirmary stood at the far end—a weathered relic from another time, its facade half-hidden beneath creeping ivy. Sensing our unease, Sarah broke the silence, “Did you know someone new runs the infirmary now?”
“What? Where has Mrs. Cuspigt gone?” I wondered aloud, my thoughts drifting to the last time I’d seen her. Maybe the old witch had finally found peace.
Jenna’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she teased, “We’re not sure where Mrs Cuspigt went, but Mrs Helen Harth, who took over a year ago, is a graceful, kind soul. She’s a quiet beauty.”
Lost in thought, I accidentally bumped into Claire, the calmest of the group, eliciting a soft, almost inaudible “ahh.”Sorry, sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” I mumbled, stepping aside awkwardly.
Jenna couldn’t help but snicker, her laughter ringing with friendly teasing. Claire her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, responded, “It’s alright,” and turned to head toward the infirmary. We followed, and Jenna's laughter filled the air, lightening the atmosphere. I momentarily forgot the recent beating and the loss of the letter.
A wave of nostalgia washed over me as I neared the infirmary. It had been years since I last stepped foot here, yet the sight of it stirred something deep within. The stone walls, veiled in ivy, and the creaking windows were hauntingly familiar, yet something felt different. An uneasy feeling twisted in my gut as long-buried memories stirred within me.
The infirmary had once been a place of dread for me. It wasn’t just the cold, decaying structure or the eerie shadows it was Mrs. Cuspigt herself. I vividly recalled my first visit there as a child. At no more than three years old, trembling with fever, I was introduced to the grim reality of the infirmary.
To my young eyes, Mrs. Cuspigt had always seemed ancient, her sharp features locked in a permanent scowl. She was cranky, short-tempered, and seemed to bear a deep resentment towards the very children she was supposed to care for. I still remembered her hunched figure, her narrow eyes glaring at any child who dared make a sound. “Abomination,” she would mutter under her breath as she administered care with an irritated wrist flick. Her demeanour suggested that she viewed sickness as a personal affront. She would often scold and belittle the children, making them feel like burdens rather than individuals in need of care.
After a few more steps across the hallway, we approached the infirmary. The smell hit me—a bitter mix of antiseptic and mildew as if the building was revealing its history. The air felt thick and oppressive, clinging to my skin. The dim light filtering through the windows barely illuminated the room, casting strange, flickering shadows that only heightened my sense of dread. Mrs. Cuspigt’s brusque, uncaring manner had cursed the place with an air of malevolence.
But now, as I stood before the infirmary, I could sense a change. The ivy still clung to the walls, but the windows, though weathered, were clean, letting more light stream in than I ever remembered. The air had lost its mildew and bitterness, now carrying a subtle floral note, as though someone had lovingly revived this corner of the orphanage.
My curiosity piqued, and I took a few cautious steps toward the door, moving slightly faster than the others. Inside, the transformation was even more striking. The infirmary, once bleak, had been transformed. Spotless floors gleamed, and sunlight poured through polished windows, casting a golden glow. The once cluttered shelves now stood in neat order. The same old iron bed remained, but it was freshly dressed in crisp, clean linens.
As we ventured further in, my mind raced with memories of the past—the cold, uncaring presence of Mrs. Cuspigt, the fear that had gripped my chest every time I was forced to come here. But now that heaviness has lifted. Warmth and care now filled the room.
Inside, I saw Mrs. Helen, a stark contrast to Mrs. Cuspigt. Where the old woman had been cold and harsh, Mrs. Helen exuded warmth and kindness. She was in her late thirties, with soft, wavy hair pinned back and a smile that reached her blue eyes as she tidied the infirmary. Her movements were gentle, her hands methodically straightening the blanket on the bed, checking the supplies, and humming softly to herself. It was evident she had poured her heart into transforming this place.
I watched her for a moment, marvelling at the difference she had made. The infirmary, once a place of dread, now seemed like a sanctuary. Mrs. Helen had turned it into a space of healing, both for the body and the spirit.
I felt a wave of gratitude. The days of Mrs. Cuspigt’s harshness were gone, replaced by someone who genuinely understood and cared for the children’s needs, offering both medicine and heartfelt attention.
With a deep breath, we stepped further into the room, the floorboards creaking softly underfoot. Mrs. Helen looked up from her work, her warm smile meeting my gaze. “Good evening, children,” she said softly, her voice calm and soothing. “What brings you here today?”
As I heard her, the past and present merged in my mind, and for the first time in years, I felt a sense of peace standing in the orphanage’s infirmary. The ghosts of Mrs Cuspigt’s cruel care were gone, replaced by the warmth and kindness that Mrs Helen had brought with her.
Before we could answer, her gaze fell on Theo and me. She quickly stood and moved toward us, her sudden motion catching us off guard.
“What happened to you both? Who did this?” Her voice was filled with a caring concern that seemed to carry an undertone of unspoken anger.
We hesitated, knowing that speaking out could potentially make things worse for us later.
Ellie, with her keen observation, interjected, “Mrs. Helen, we were just playing outside. These two managed to get themselves into a bit of trouble.”
Mrs Helen’s eyes fell on the bruises on our hands, the dirt on our clothes, and the faint traces of shoe marks that hinted at our recent altercation. Her eyes lingered on my wounds, recognizing the severity of my injuries compared to Theo’s.
Her smile faltered for a moment as she assessed the situation, and then, with a voice tinged with displeasure and a knowing undertone, she said, “So, you both had a bit of a tumble.”
Signalling us to come closer, she continued with a tone reminiscent of a detective, “Tell me your names.”
As we approached her with a mix of apprehension and hope, I said, “I’m Lumen,” and Theo gave his name in turn.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Mrs. Helen addressed me in a voice both gentle and perceptive, “Lumen, it looks like you took the brunt of the fall, more than Theo.”
We understood her implication—the severity of my injuries spoke volumes. I laughed nervously, “I’ll take better care of myself in the future.”
Her voice softened, carrying an almost angelic reassurance. “You’ll both be fine,” she said, her words wrapping around us like a warm embrace, easing our pain.
She attended to Theo with practised efficiency, her hands moving with calm precision as she guided him gently to lie down on the bed for further rest. The infirmary’s soothing atmosphere stood in stark contrast to the tension that had gripped us earlier. As she turned her attention to me, her touch was both gentle and assured, meticulously cleaning my wounds and applying bandages with a delicate care that spoke volumes of her compassion.
The girls stood by; their concern evident. Claire’s eyes were full of sympathy, Ellie looked worried, and Jenna and Sarah exchanged supportive glances. Their eyes were filled with empathy, and though they maintained a respectful silence, their presence was a silent support that bolstered our spirits. The quiet solidarity they offered was a source of unexpected strength, helping us face the discomfort with a bit more courage.
As she tended to my wounds, her gaze caught something peeking from under my shirt. With an intrigued smile, she asked, “What’s that you’ve got there, Lumen?” Her tone was light and inviting, creating a sense of ease despite the pain.
I hesitated briefly, but the warmth of her demeanour made me feel comfortable enough to reveal the box. Slowly, I pulled it out and said, “It’s just an old box.”
Mrs. Helen carefully examined the box, her smile growing as she admired its craftsmanship. “This is quite a charming little box,” she said with a touch of amusement. “It’s a bit dirty, though. You should take better care of it.”
I nodded in agreement, a bit embarrassed. “Yes, Miss. It fell in the mud earlier. I’ll clean it up once we’re back in the dorm.”
She gave me a heartwarming smile, then took a damp cloth and began cleaning the box. “You’re injured; how will you manage to clean it?” She joked lightly, her laughter warm and genuine. The room was filled with a comforting sense of camaraderie as we shared a laugh, which lightened the mood and made us feel a bit more at ease.
As she was finishing cleaning the box. "This wooden box... I think I’ve seen one like it before," she said thoughtfully, her eyes lingering on the intricate carvings and faded patterns that adorned its surface.
“Where, Miss?” I asked, my voice filled with genuine excitement. My eagerness was momentarily surprising, but it quickly gave way to a sheepish grin as I realized my enthusiasm.
Mrs. Helen’s eyes twinkled as she examined the box. “This might be one of my husband’s creations,” she said with nostalgic fondness.
Excited, I inquired, “Why do you think that, Miss?”
She added with a touch of nostalgia, “My husband, Dan, runs the only carpenter shop in town. It’s a family business, so if this box was made locally, it’s likely his work.”
Hearing this, my excitement surged. “Thank you, Miss!” I exclaimed, already planning to visit Mr. Dan to learn more about the box’s origins.
Mrs. Helen, noticing my thoughtful expression, added, “Currently, my husband is working in another town. When he returns, I’ll arrange for you both to meet him.”
I beamed at her. “Thank you so much, Miss.”
Mrs. Helen’s gentle smile grew. “You should all come by more often,” she suggested warmly.
In unison, we replied, “We will, Mrs. Helen.”
I offered one final thank you for her care, and as we left the infirmary, the burden of our worries felt lighter, replaced by the warmth of Mrs. Helen’s kindness.
As we left the infirmary, our footsteps echoed softly in the dim hallway. The cool evening air was a refreshing contrast to the stifling atmosphere inside. As we walked toward the dining room, the chatter and laughter of the other children grew louder, promising a normal end to an otherwise tumultuous day.
“I told you Mrs. Helen is truly graceful and caring. Her quiet beauty and warmth make such a difference,” Jenna said, her eyes shining with pride.
We all nodded in agreement, the tension of the day easing slightly with her words.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice filled with genuine gratitude. “If it weren’t for all of you, Theo and I don’t know how much worse today could have been.”
The girls exchanged shy, yet endearing glances, their cheeks tinged with embarrassment.
I added with a smile, “It’s good to be friends with all of you.”
In unison, the girls replied with heartfelt sincerity, “It’s our pleasure too, to be friends with both of you.”
As we approached the dining hall, Theo stopped us with a serious expression. “It’s probably best if we enter separately,” he suggested.
Sarah, raising an eyebrow, said with a touch of concern, “So, you’re not joining us for dinner?” Her tone was light but carried a hint of worry.
Theo folded his arms in mock defeat and explained, “It’s not that. Think about it—Marcus and his goons might be around. If he sees us together, I don’t want things to get worse for you all. We still don’t understand his problem with us.”
The others considered Theo’s reasoning, nodding in understanding. Sarah’s expression softened as she said, “Okay, I get it. But let’s not let this distance become a habit. We’re friends, after all.” With a reassuring smile, she and the others headed inside.
Before they vanished through the door, Sarah turned and said, “If we find out anything about why you’re targeted, we’ll let you know.” She gave us a final wave and a warm smile before disappearing into the dining room.
Theo and I followed at a distance, my mind still buzzing with the day’s events. After dinner, we returned to the dormitory and settled into our beds.
As the silence of the dormitory enveloped us, my mind replayed the day’s events like a disjointed film. The bruises and the mess of the letter seemed almost insignificant compared to the warmth we’d felt from Mrs. Helen. The girls’ kindness and Theo’s unexpected optimism hinted at something I had longed for but barely dared to believe in. Despite the chaos and pain, there was a small, flickering light of possibility. It was as if the day had been a painful yet necessary prelude to a brighter chapter waiting to unfold.
After a while, Theo broke the silence with a hesitant murmur, “Uh, well, that was… unexpected.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, glancing at him with a smirk. “Who knew you could be so shy?”
Theo’s face flushed with embarrassment. “Shut up,” he mumbled, but his grin revealed his amusement.
In the quiet of the dorm, Theo struck up a brief conversation with a nearby boy, suggesting they switch beds. I didn’t question it—Theo’s reasoning often defied logic but usually made sense in the end. Soon, he was lying in the bed next to mine.
Later that night, as the room grew still and the others drifted off to sleep, Theo turned to me from his bed. Despite the bruises on his face, an unusual lightness showed in his expression.
“You know,” he whispered with a grin, “today wasn’t so bad, all things considered. Despite the trouble we had, we connected with the others. That’s something to hold onto.”
I stared at him, perplexed. “Are you kidding me? We got beaten up, Marcus burned the letter, and although the box, chalk sticks, and figurine were saved, the day was far from good.”
Theo’s grin widened, his gaze drifting toward the window where moonlight cast the room in soft, silvery light. “The girls talked to us,” he said, his voice taking on a dreamy quality. “It felt like… like a real connection.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”
Theo chuckled softly, pulling his blanket up as he settled back into bed. “Maybe. But you’ll see, Lumen. Things are going to change.”
I wanted to argue, but a small part of me hoped he was right. Despite the day’s chaos, there was a hint of something different—an elusive sense of possibility. For the first time in a long while, I felt like change might be within reach.
As sleep finally claimed me, I clung to that fragile hope, the promise of something better. And for the first time, the weight of loneliness felt a little lighter.