The night cloaked the village in a fragile stillness, stars blinking through thinning clouds above the orphanage. Ava sat on a weathered bench, her gaze lost in the sky, her hands clutching the crumpled chocolate wrapper—Sam's gift to Mira, now a heavy relic of loss. Grief had carved her hollow, her eyes sunken, her frame frail as if Mira's death had drained her last ember. The evening's terror—the Peirie Alien's yellow eyes, Ethan's tackle, her collapse in the forest—lingered like a bruise, but Mira's absence crushed her most. Ethan's silence in the ward, his secrets, stung, dulled by exhaustion into a quiet ache.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel, and Ava's hand brushed the scalpel in her pocket, her body tensing. Ethan emerged from the shadows, his leather jacket scuffed, his green eyes catching the starlight. He looked worn, the burial and fight etched in his face, a flicker of pain—for Ava, for Mira—softening his gaze. He stopped a few steps away, hands in his pockets, voice low but firm.
"Ava," he said, "the children, everyone's sad here. Sam, the others—they're drowning in Mira's loss, like we are. We can't let it break them. We must do something to make them fine." His eyes narrowed, falling on her hands. "I'm noticing the chocolate wrapper you're carrying with you since last night. I can guess this is something related to Mira."
Ava's fingers tightened around the wrapper, her breath catching, but Ethan pressed on, his tone sharpening. "Ava, you're too emotional, too sensitive. No need for that—keep your emotions in control. You're an outsider to this orphanage, so why are you acting like this? Stop it. Throw that wrapper away." He stepped closer, voice resolute. "You're the one left behind to console people here—the children, everyone."
Ava's eyes snapped to his, anger flaring through her exhaustion, his words slicing at Mira's memory. Outsider. The label burned, but as she stared at him, his green eyes steady, a reluctant truth settled in. He was right—she was clinging to grief, to the wrapper, when the children needed her strength, her light. She was the one to console them, to pull them from this shadow. Her jaw trembled, tears pricking, but she looked at the wrapper, its creases worn from her grip. With a shaky breath, she set it on the bench, abandoning it to the night, and stood, a faint resolve stirring in her chest.
Ethan watched, the pain for her twisting in his chest—her fragility cut deep, but her choice to move forward sparked something like relief. "Do one thing," he said, softer now. "Talk to every child. Ask what they want, something just for them. Tomorrow, we'll gift them those things. It won't erase this, but it's a start."
Ava nodded, her voice quiet but steady. "Okay." She didn't meet his eyes, her gaze drifting to the orphanage door, but the weight of his words—*console them*—anchored her. Ethan lingered, torn, then said, "I'll check the perimeter. Get some rest." He turned toward the forest, leaving her in the starlight.
Ava stepped inside, her steps lighter despite her weariness, a new purpose guiding her to the common room. The children were scattered—some on cots, others in small groups, their faces drawn but softer in the lamplight. Sam sat with his bunny, staring at the floor. Ava knelt beside him, forcing a smile. "Hey, Sam, love that blue shirt—looks cozy. I'm going shopping tomorrow. What should I bring for you?"
Sam's eyes lifted, a shy spark flickering. "A coloring book," he said, voice small. "With animals." Ava's heart warmed, and she moved to the others, her positivity growing. "Wow, that dress is so pretty," she said to a girl in a faded frock, who blushed. "What do you want tomorrow?" The girl grinned, asking for clay to make art. Another wanted hair clips, bright ones; a boy asked for a toy car. "Coloring books, clay for arts, hair clips," Ava repeated, her voice brighter, their wishes like sparks catching flame.
The room buzzed, the children's voices rising, happy and light, as if grief had slipped away, forgotten in the moment. "I want a puzzle!" one called, and another giggled, "A stuffed dog!" Ava laughed, a sound that surprised her, her exhaustion easing as their joy fed her own. She sat among them, her eyes shining, the wrapper's absence no longer a wound. The children forgot their sorrow, their laughter a fragile but real balm, and Ava felt whole, if only for now.
Outside, Ethan stood at the forest's edge, WolfSnap silent in his pocket, the night's quiet deceptive. Yeman's words echoed: A pure soul waits, hidden in shadow, the key to ending the Peirie Aliens. His scratch pulsed, the alien's threat—We'll find it first—a blade at his throat. Patel's words lingered: The kids are getting better… their own willpower. Hopeful, but Ethan feared the disease was the Peirie's mark, fading as they hunted the soul.
He pulled out his burner phone, dialing a number etched in memory. His mom's voice answered, warm but tired. "Ethan, it's late."
"Mom," he said, voice low. "How's Papa? Where's he at?"
"He's okay," she said, soothing. "Out on a job, back soon. You sound… heavy. What's wrong?"
Ethan leaned against a tree, the orphanage's lamplight distant. "It's been rough here. A girl at the orphanage—Mira—she died last night. A disease we can't figure out, but the other kids are getting better, somehow. There's… something else, too. Something I can't explain yet." He didn't mention Yeman, the Peirie, the pure soul—too much, too dangerous.
"Oh, Ethan," his mom said, soft. "You're carrying so much. Be careful, okay?"
"I will," he said, ending the call, staring into the soul of nearby forest .
Inside, Ava tucked the last child into bed, their laughter still echoing in her mind. She felt lighter, the children's joy a gift she hadn't expected.
To be continued...