The sky was pale blue, thin clouds drifting above San Francisco as Aurora adjusted the basket in her arms. Inside were loaves of bread, still warm from the commune's ovens. Grace carried jars of beans and rice, while June clutched a tin pot of soup. Behind them trailed half a dozen members — young and nervous but eager.
Aurora's shawl was wrapped tight, her expression serene despite the tension that hummed in her chest. This was what she had promised the commune: to show the world their hands were open, not clenched in fists.
Luxe stood by the fence, arms folded, eyes narrowed as the group prepared to leave. Her ribs still ached, but her voice carried sharp.
"You don't know what you're walking into."
Aurora smiled faintly. "Into a kitchen. To feed the hungry."
"Into a city that already thinks we're witches," Luxe shot back.
Aurora's gaze softened. "Then we'll show them we're neighbors instead."
The group looked between the sisters, caught in the quiet tug of war. Finally Aurora turned, leading them toward the dirt road that wound into the city. Luxe stayed behind, watching until they disappeared from sight.
Only then did she exhale, muttering under her breath. "God help them if Beaumont's already there."
The soup kitchen on Folsom Street smelled of onions, grease, and too many bodies crammed into too little space. The line outside stretched down the block — men in worn coats, women with children on their hips, veterans with eyes hollowed by war.
Inside, chaos reigned. Pots clanged, voices rose, steam fogged the cracked windows. Volunteers ladled broth into chipped bowls, hands moving as fast as need demanded.
Mrs. Whitaker, a stout woman with graying hair, spotted Aurora and nearly sagged with relief. "Bless you for coming. We're drowning here."
Aurora smiled warmly, setting her basket on the counter. "We brought what we could. Bread, beans, soup."
"Anything helps," Mrs. Whitaker said, bustling them inside.
Grace rolled up her sleeves immediately, taking over a boiling pot. June began slicing bread. Aurora moved to the line, ladling soup with gentle words for each person who passed.
"Here you are."
"Take extra for your boy."
"Don't lose hope."
Her voice carried like a hymn, softening even the harshest faces.
Not everyone welcomed them.
As Aurora served, she heard whispers ripple through the line.
"That's one of them."
"From that commune."
"Heard they keep runaways."
"Heard worse."
A man sneered as he accepted his bowl. "Witch food won't taste better than the city's."
Aurora met his gaze calmly. "Hunger doesn't care who feeds it."
The man grunted, shuffling away, but others watched with interest. Some softened. A mother with two children clutched Aurora's hand and whispered, "Thank you," before hurrying off.
Still, the eyes lingered — suspicion sharp, judgment heavy.
During a break, Aurora slipped outside into the narrow alley beside the kitchen, needing a breath of air. The city smelled of coal smoke, oil, and damp stone.
Luxe's warning echoed in her mind: You don't know what you're walking into.
Footsteps scraped. Aurora turned to see two men leaning against the wall, cigarettes glowing. Their suits were cheap, their smiles cheaper.
"Thought we recognized you," one drawled. "Rowan girl, right? From that… camp outside town."
Aurora's stomach tightened. "Commune."
The man smirked. "Sure. Folks say you and your sister are starting your own cult. Corrupting girls. Luring men. Sound familiar?"
The second man stepped closer, smoke curling from his lips. "Beaumont doesn't take kindly to competition."
Aurora's heart pounded, but her voice stayed steady. "We're not his competition. We're not his anything."
The first man flicked his cigarette into the gutter. "Then why's he got boys watching your fields every night?"
Aurora froze.
The men chuckled, shoving off the wall. "Careful, sweetheart. You keep feeding the city, maybe you'll win hearts. But you'll never win his."
They left her standing in the alley, shawl clutched tight, pulse hammering.
When Aurora returned inside, Luxe's absence pressed heavier than ever. Her sister would have met those men with fists, maybe worse. Aurora had met them with words — and still felt shaken.
She threw herself into serving, ladling soup, breaking bread, smiling until her cheeks ached. By the end of the day, dozens had eaten from their hands. Some left still muttering, but others offered shy thanks.
It wasn't victory. But it was something.
As they packed up, Mrs. Whitaker squeezed Aurora's arm. "You're welcome here anytime. Don't let the talk scare you. Hungry bellies don't care for gossip."
Aurora smiled, weary but grateful. "Thank you. We'll be back."
But in her heart, doubt gnawed.
The group trudged back at dusk, baskets empty, clothes damp with soup and sweat. The commune greeted them with relief and curiosity.
"They let you help?"
"Did anyone say anything?"
"Were you safe?"
Aurora reassured them, speaking gently of grateful mothers and hungry children fed. She didn't mention the men in the alley.
Luxe listened in silence, arms crossed. When Aurora finally finished, Luxe spoke low, meant for her alone.
"Did you really believe serving soup would keep Beaumont's men away?"
Aurora met her gaze, tired but unyielding. "Did you really believe hiding beans underground will win hearts?"
The distance between them felt sharper than ever.
That night, as lanterns flickered, Aurora sat by the children's beds, telling them a story of kindness overcoming cruelty. Her voice was soft, her eyes bright — but inside, her heart trembled with the memory of those cigarette-glowing smirks.
Luxe stood outside in the dark, hammer still in hand, eyes fixed on the tree line. She didn't need to imagine men smoking there. She knew they were.
Two sisters. Two visions. One city already pulling them apart.
The morning air was damp as Aurora led the small caravan of commune members along the dirt road into San Francisco. Wheels of their handcart squeaked, baskets rattled. The city skyline shimmered ahead, a jagged silhouette against the pale dawn — smokestacks, church spires, the golden arc of the Bay Bridge in the distance.
Aurora's fingers tightened around the handle of the basket she carried. The bread inside was still warm, its scent comforting, like home. Behind her, Grace pushed the cart loaded with jars of beans, while June carefully carried the tin pot of soup swaddled in blankets.
Aurora kept her head high, though her stomach twisted. Luxe's words lingered like a shadow: You don't know what you're walking into.
The closer they drew to the city, the louder it became — trolley bells clanging, horns honking, hawkers shouting from open windows. Smells collided in the air: roasted chestnuts, horse dung, coal smoke, fried onions. Aurora's shawl absorbed the city's grit almost instantly.
She breathed it in anyway, whispering to herself: "Let them see us as neighbors."
The soup kitchen was a squat brick building wedged between a tailor's shop and a pawn broker. A hand-painted sign above the door read Community Table. Outside, a line stretched down the block: men in patched coats, veterans with medals pinned to worn jackets, mothers with thin-faced children.
Inside, the air was thick with steam and the sharp tang of onions frying. Volunteers moved frantically behind the counter, ladling thin broth into chipped bowls, passing out crusts of bread. Voices rose in hunger and impatience.
Mrs. Whitaker, stout and sweat-damp, spotted Aurora and nearly sagged with relief. "Bless you, child! We're drowning here."
Aurora set her basket on the counter, pulling back the cloth to reveal golden loaves. "We brought what we could."
The woman pressed her hand over her heart. "It'll do more than you think."
Grace immediately took over a pot, stirring beans into broth with brisk, efficient movements. June sliced bread into careful wedges, fingers trembling but determined. Aurora tied her shawl tighter, moved to the front, and picked up a ladle.
She smiled at the first man in line, a veteran with haunted eyes. "Here you are," she said softly, filling his bowl. "Eat well."
For a time, Aurora lost herself in the rhythm — ladle, bowl, smile, word of kindness. But the whispers began quickly.
"That's her, isn't it?"
"The Rowan girl."
"Heard they run a camp. Not right, women leading men like that."
"Some say witches. My cousin swears it."
Aurora's smile didn't falter, though her fingers trembled.
A man in a patched coat sneered as she handed him soup. "Food tastes the same, even when it's poisoned by witch hands."
Aurora met his eyes calmly. "Hunger doesn't care who feeds it. Neither should you."
The man grunted, shuffled away. Behind him, a woman with two children whispered a soft "thank you" and clutched Aurora's hand before disappearing into the crowd.
The contrast was sharp: suspicion and gratitude, side by side, like wolves and lambs sharing the same street.
As the morning stretched, sweat beaded on Aurora's brow. Her arms ached from ladling, her cheeks burned from constant smiling. Still she carried on.
A boy no older than twelve approached, hair unkempt, eyes wary. She ladled soup into his bowl, crouching slightly to meet his gaze. "What's your name?"
"Tommy."
"Tommy," she repeated gently. "This will keep you strong."
The boy hesitated, then whispered, "They say you take kids away."
Aurora's heart tightened. "No," she said softly. "We don't take. We give. And if you ever need a place, you'll find food and safety with us."
The boy's eyes widened. He scurried away, but she caught the faintest flicker of hope in his face.
By midday, the kitchen had quieted. Aurora stepped outside, basket empty, to breathe. The alley was narrow, damp, lined with trash bins. Coal smoke and city grit hung in the air.
She barely had time to savor the stillness before footsteps echoed. Two men leaned against the wall, cigarettes glowing. Suits cheap, smiles cheaper.
"Thought we recognized you," one drawled. "Rowan girl. The pretty one."
Aurora clutched her shawl tighter. "We're feeding the hungry. That's all."
The second man chuckled, exhaling smoke. "That's not what Beaumont hears. He says you're corrupting youth. Stealing girls. Keeping men in your beds."
Aurora's stomach lurched. "Lies."
"Doesn't matter," the first replied, stepping closer. "Lies spread faster than truth. And Beaumont writes the script."
The second flicked ash toward her feet. "Careful, sweetheart. You play at being a saint, but saints burn just as easy as witches."
Aurora forced her voice steady, though her hands trembled inside her shawl. "We're not his competition. We want nothing from him."
The men exchanged a grin, sinister in its ease. "That's the problem," one murmured. "Beaumont doesn't like things he can't own."
They walked off, leaving smoke and dread in their wake.
Aurora leaned against the wall, breath unsteady. Luxe would have met them with fists. But Luxe wasn't here. Aurora had chosen words. She prayed words would be enough.
Back inside, Aurora poured the last of the soup. Mrs. Whitaker clasped her hands. "You'll come back, won't you? We need you."
Aurora smiled faintly, exhaustion heavy in her bones. "Yes. We'll come back."
But doubt gnawed beneath the promise.
The walk home was quiet. June chattered nervously about the children they'd fed; Grace muttered about costs and supplies. Aurora listened but said little. Her thoughts were on the alley, on cigarette glows, on Luxe's warnings.
The commune gathered as the group returned at dusk. Faces leaned forward, eager for news.
"They let you help?"
"Were you safe?"
"Did people thank you?"
Aurora told them of children fed, of gratitude given. She left out the alley, the threats.
Murmurs of relief spread. Some smiled, believing maybe the world could be swayed. Others looked skeptical, unconvinced.
Luxe stood at the back, arms folded, eyes sharp. When Aurora finished, Luxe spoke low, only for her sister:
"Did you really believe serving soup would keep Beaumont's men away?"
Aurora's reply was just as quiet, weary but unyielding. "Did you really believe hoarding beans underground will win hearts?"
Their eyes locked, fire and water clashing in silence. The divide grew wider, invisible but undeniable.
That night, Aurora told stories to the children, her voice soft and hopeful. She painted pictures of kindness overcoming cruelty, of light outshining dark.
Outside, Luxe patrolled the fields, hammer in hand, gaze fixed on the tree line. Cigarette glows winked back from the shadows.
Two sisters. Two visions. One city already pulling them apart.