The trek ended at sunset. Beyond the ridge of sand and stone lay a cluster of worn wooden houses, half-broken fences, and a courtyard where laughter carried faintly on the wind.
Children. Dozens of them — running barefoot, tossing stones like marbles, chasing one another in play. For a moment, the newly arrived group forgot their weariness. Even Kairo, standing silent at the edge, felt the air shift — not heavy like the desert, but alive.
The man smiled faintly. "We've arrived."
The doors creaked open. A woman stood there, older, her hair streaked with gray, her apron dusted with flour. Her eyes scanned the new arrivals before settling on him.
"You brought more?" she asked, voice flat, not unkind but strained.
"They had nowhere else," he replied.
She nodded slowly, then motioned for the children to go inside. The orphans rushed in, faces bright, some stopping to greet the newcomers. A boy handed Igron a wooden toy, giggling, while a girl tugged at Kairo's sleeve before darting off.
But as the laughter swelled, the mistress's gaze lingered on the man. She beckoned him aside, into the dim backroom.
"You can't keep doing this," she whispered harshly, once the door shut. "We're full. There isn't enough food, not enough space. Every time you drag more in, the ones already here suffer."
The man's jaw tightened. "And you'd have me leave them to die?"
Her eyes softened, but her tone didn't waver.
"You're too good-hearted. That goodness will be the death of all of them. Someone has to make a choice. If you want these new ones here… some of the older children must go. There's no other way."
Outside, muffled laughter and chatter filled the halls. Inside, silence pressed heavy.
The man stood there, shadow cutting across his face, torn between the woman's brutal logic and the warmth he had promised the children outside.
Unseen, at the doorway, Kairo lingered — crimson eyes half-lidded, listening. His expression betrayed nothing, but deep within, something stirred.