Nobody spoke, Nobody moved.
Rin sat motionless on the floor, her half-finished bracelet limp in her hands. Bram slowly turned around. Niko stared behind himself blankly, holding a broom.
Locke stood near the doorway looking at the children, not knowing what's behind him.
Three figures stepped in orphanage without a sound. Their long black coats flapped against the cold wind coming in from outside.
Each of them wore a black mask with what resembled a human hand, palms inward with the fingers gripping the front of their mask.
Locke turned his head back slowly and froze.
Locke:Who are they?
No—he knows. He already knows. The [Quiet Hand]. It has to be them.
Locke's mind raced with thoughts
Locke: They're here for us. But why now? Why like this? Why do they have hands on their faces.? Why is it so quiet? I don't like this. Why is the old hag standing behind them like she hasn't done anything wrong?
The old woman stepped in behind them, slowly, and deliberately. She moved to the side not even looking at the children. She had no expression on her face.
Then, he came.
A figure in white. Dressed in soft flowing pale robes that barely made a noise, even with the cold wind blowing them upwards.
His hair was pale white.
Unlike the other dressed in black—his face, a white hand curled against his skin. Its fingers spread across his mouth. Resting, but with a seemingly tight grip.
You could see parts of his face. Mainly the eyes.
Pink. Faint. Empty.
Not angry. Not happy. Devoid of emotion.
Stopping in the center of his room the pale man tilted his head slightly.
Locke analyzed rapidly.
Locke: Who is he? He's different. He's not like them. I think they listen to him. He's in charge? No—he doesn't even look like he wants to be in charge. He looks like he belongs elsewhere. Like he's walking through a dream that isn't his. Like he forgot what it feels like to care. Is he here to take us? None of us have moved yet. Rin's frozen. Niko too. Bram's waiting, and i'm just—
Locke didn't move—he couldn't.
His mind was racing too fast. leaving him unable to move. Too many questions.
Locke: Why am I thinking this much? Why am I thinking about thinking? Do something, say something. Anything. But if I say anything, what if the situations becomes worse? They're watching us. What if they try to take me the second I move?
The man in the white robes looked at each of the children with calm eye movements.
???: "One, Two, Three…"
He took a step toward Rin.
The little girl clutched the bracelet pieces in her hand, trembling. She didn't cry. She didn't know if she was in danger. Her eyes were wide.
He kneeled.
Gently he reached out and rubbed her head. Soft and slow, like dusting snow off a tree.
And then faintly—just barely—his eyes showed hint of emotion, whether it was relief, sadness, or joy, was unknown.
He stood up and turned to locke.
???: "Four… No, three".
He wasn't looking at Locke—he was looking throughhim. Pasthim. Something unseen.
Locke: Why did he count down when he got to me? What is he looking at?
Closing his pink eyes. He put a fist right to the side of his own head. He had hit it hard. With a thud the room shook—no, whatever shook was from inside.
A soundless shatter.
Like a scream that never reached the ears but rattled the soul directly.
The moment the man struck his own head, a strange pressure rushed outward from him. Not air, not weight, but force.
Resonance
The world blurred. Sound became muffled and distant.
The last thing that he saw was the white robed man standing still. Not looking at him. Not looking at anything at all.
Then—
Black
Not sleep.
Not a dream.
Just absence.
Rain.
That was the first thing Locke noticed.
Steady.
Soft at first.
Then louder. Constant.
Tapping against the roof like it had been falling forever.
Then—
a breath.
His own.
Sharp. Uneven.
He opened his eyes.
It was night.
Lightning flashed through the cracked windows, filling the room with brief, colorless shapes. The storm beyond the walls was deep in its rhythm now. Endless, patient, cold.
He lay on the floor.
Wood beneath him, soaked in places. Splintered. Familiar.
He sat up. Slowly. Carefully.
Every part of him moved like it had forgotten how.
Something was wrong.
More than wrong.
Something inside him felt… hollow.
Stretched thin. Disconnected.
Like a thread had been pulled too far and snapped.
He blinked, looked around.
Locke: What happened?
Why does my chest feel like it's caving in? What did he do to me?
He hit himself , that's all. Just a punch to the side of his own head. And then—
Then everything broke.
Not just the air. Something inside me.
He pulled himself to his feet.
Wobbled once. Steadied.
His boots scraped against the warped floorboards.
Lightning flashed again.
This time he saw the whole room empty.
Rin's bead pouch lay spilled on the floor.
Not because she'd been making anything. Just something she kept in her pocket.
She always picked up things no one else wanted.
One of the beads, red, chipped, useless, had rolled near the doorway.
Locke: She used to say they were lucky.
She probably knew that was a lie. But it made her feel like things meant something.
Now, they're just trash again.
Niko's coat was still slung over the edge of the cot.
Bram's scarf —stitched, and restitched — hung limply on the broken chair.
Everything was still here.
Everything but them.
They were just here.
And now they're gone.
His eyes drifted toward the far corner.
The old woman's chair.
It was empty.
Just the chair. Leaning slightly to one side. As it always had.
But she was gone too.
Locke: She's gone. Of course she is. She let them in. No. Not let. She brought them.
She made the deal.
It was sinking in, now.
A truth he had known the moment she stepped aside and said nothing.
The moment she didn't flinch.
Didn't question.
Didn't even look at them.
Locke: She knew exactly who they were.
She'd seen them before.
She was waiting.
She handed us over like we were a debt she'd finally paid off.
His stomach twisted. His fists clenched without thinking.
Locke: She hated us.
We weren't children to her. We were burdens. Unwanted mouths. Strays eating her food, wasting her time.
She said it, again and again. That we were lucky to even be inside. That no one else would take us.
And now… she proved it.
All this time, we thought we were surviving together. But she was counting the days until she could hand us off.
He stepped toward her chair.
No sign of struggle. No parting words.
Not even a mark on the floor.
Just absence.
Locke: She didn't tell us.
She didn't warn us. Didn't give us a chance to run. Not even a goodbye. Not even a lie to make it easier.
What did she get for us? Did they offer her safety? A place? A painless death?
Or maybe she didn't ask for anything. Maybe she just wanted us gone.
He didn't realize how hard his jaw was clenched until it started to hurt.
Rain continued to fall.
He turned to the door.
It was open.
Wind howled through the frame. Cold and bitter.
He stepped outside.
The rain hit him instantly — sharp and soaking.
It flattened his hair, ran down his spine, soaked into his sleeves.
The world outside was slick with mud.
Dark trees twisted in the distance, barely visible in the downpour.
He took one step into the open, then turned back.
The orphanage stood behind him.
Small. Pathetic. Falling apart.
Two rooms. One broken window. A door that never locked.
Home.
If you could call it that.
And now it was empty.
He stared at it, heart thudding too fast, too hard.
Another flash of lightning.
The building lit up for half a second.
Still no movement.
No sound but the wind and the rain.
Locke: No one's coming back. They're gone.
And they left me. Did they mean to? Did they notice? Why me? Why not all of us? What does it mean that I'm still here? Was I spared? Or rejected? Did she trade all of us… or just the ones they asked for?
Was I the one they didn't want?
The rain blurred his vision.
Or maybe he was crying.
It didn't matter.
There was no one left to see.
He stood in the storm, staring at the only place he'd ever belonged.
Then he turned.
And ran.
Into the dark.