The smell of rotten porridge clung to the walls like a curse.
My fingers were sore, raw from scrubbing the filthy floor of the hallway for hours. My knees ached, but I didn't stop. You couldn't stop in this place—not unless you wanted to bleed. My little sister, Milly, worked beside me, her tiny hands trembling as she dragged the wet rag over the cracked tiles.
She was only five. Too small for this.
My stomach was hollow, but hers… hers made a sound. A loud one.
"Grrrrrhhk..." the growl echoed like betrayal in the silence. I froze. So did she.
I turned to her, wide-eyed, and immediately pressed my hand over her mouth. "Don't say anything," I whispered sharply. "Don't ask. They'll beat us."
She nodded under my palm, eyes full of fear. My baby. My everything.
But someone had already heard it.
One of the boys from the older group was watching us. I didn't know him. He had dark eyes, messy hair, and cuts on his knuckles. He looked like someone who had been here too long… but still hadn't gone numb.
And then—he did something no one ever did in this hell.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of bread. Stale. Small. But it was food. And he held it out toward Milly.
My heart nearly stopped.
"No—" I whispered under my breath. "Don't—"
But before I could say anything more, a voice barked across the hallway.
"Dante!"
The meanest ward in the center stomped toward him, red-faced and furious. I knew what came next. I wanted to look away.
But I didn't.
The man yanked the boy—Dante, I heard his name—and slammed him against the wall. He started hitting him. Again. Again. The sound of skin meeting skin, the dull thuds of violence, echoed down the hallway.
And Dante didn't fight back. He just… let it happen.
"Stop it!" I screamed before I could stop myself. "He didn't do anything wrong! Please don't hurt him! Please—!"
The ward shoved me away, then dragged Dante down the hall and slammed a door shut behind him. Locked. No food. No light.
Just punishment.
The other kids were as terrified as I was.
We continued our work for almost an hour, but my hands were trembling, and my mind—
—my mind was still locked behind that door with him.
Dinner came, but I didn't touch a single bite.
They gave us the usual—stale bread and watered-down soup—but I couldn't swallow any of it. My stomach turned every time I thought of Dante, locked in that dark room, hurting and alone.
So I hid the bread under my blanket when no one was looking.
Night fell. Silence wrapped around the building like a heavy shroud, broken only by the occasional cough or rustle of sheets. I waited until the others were asleep, their breath slow and steady. Then I crept out—quiet, barefoot, heart pounding. I kissed my little sisters forehead.
Something led me to the rooftop.
And he was there.
Dante.
He was sitting against the wall, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. His face was a mess of bruises—purple, red, angry. His lip was cracked. One eye barely opened.
But he still looked at the stars.
"Dante…" I whispered.
His head turned slowly, and for a second, I saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes.
I held out the bread. "I… saved this for you."
He blinked, then—slowly—took it. But before he took a bite, he broke it in half and handed a piece back to me.
"You shouldn't be here."
I didn't say anything.
"Here.." he took my hand and placed the half bread on it.
My heart clenched.
"You didn't eat either?" he asked, his voice rough.
I shook my head. "I couldn't."
He smiled, barely, wincing at the motion. "You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to," I said softly.
We sat side by side, sharing dry bread under the stars.
"What's your name?" he asked after a moment.
I hesitated, then whispered, "It's Danna."
He looked at me for a long time, then nodded. "I'm Dante. But I guess you already knew that."
"I heard them say it," I admitted.
A beat of silence. Then he said, "Thank you… for helping me."
That was the first night we became friends. The first moment I realized the world was cruel—
—but sometimes, just sometimes, someone kind finds you in the middle of it.
Dante glanced at me again, then stretched out a bruised hand.
"From now on," he said, his voice low but steady, "we're friends."
I stared at his hand for a second—then reached out and shook it.
His fingers were rough, knuckles scraped, but the warmth in his touch was real.
A small smile tugged at his lips. Then he stood, a little unsteady, and held his hand out to me again.
"Come on," he said. "Let's go to bed—unless you want another good beating tomorrow for sneaking out."
I let out a breathy laugh and slipped my hand into his.
"No thanks."
We made our way down the stairs, slowly and quietly, still holding hands like it was the most normal thing in the world.
The silence between us wasn't awkward—it felt… safe.
When we reached our room, I peeked inside.
The other kids were curled up under thin blankets, lost in their dreams. My little sister was fast asleep in the lower bunk, her small frame tucked close to the wall.
Dante let go of my hand gently.
I turned to him and gave a tiny wave. "Goodnight, Dante."
He nodded. "Night, Danna."
I climbed into the bed beside my sister, careful not to wake her.
Dante slipped into his own bunk across the room—alone, but maybe not as alone anymore.
For the first time in days…
…I fell asleep with a soft smile on my lips.
"Night everyone." I whispered to myself.