The Orphanage of the Forgotten

Lowstone might have been a clean little countryside town, all picturesque charm and cobblestone streets, but like every place in the world, it had its hidden rot. No matter how pretty the façade, there’s always a corner where misery gets swept under the rug so it doesn’t spoil the scenery.

That morning, I wandered through the back alleys, curious to explore the less polished side of this annoyingly tidy town. Pururun bounced along beside me — or well, “bounced” might not be the right word. Her movements were somewhere between hopping and rolling, like a hyperactive jellybean. She was in a playful mood, ricocheting off walls and shifting colors like a malfunctioning rainbow.

"Can you cut it out already?" I muttered as she did another pirouette. "What the hell did you eat this time? You look like a Christmas tree on ecstasy."

She responded with a sulky wiggle before resuming her acrobatics. Typical.

As I turned into an especially narrow alley, I stumbled upon a scene that made my stomach twist.

Half a dozen kids — no older than twelve, some as young as six — were digging through a pile of garbage behind what looked like an abandoned bakery. Their clothes were nothing but filthy rags, their faces gaunt with hunger, and they were practically fighting over moldy crusts and rotten vegetable scraps.

"Jesus fcking Christ…" I breathed.

A world ruled by Her Divine Highness Being X in all its nauseating glory.

The sight was bad enough on a moral level, but what really got to me was the sanitary disaster in progress. These kids were slowly poisoning themselves without even realizing it.

"Hey! You brats!"

They froze like startled birds, wide eyes filled with fear. The oldest — a scrawny boy with dirty hair and hollow cheeks — stepped in front of the others protectively.

"W-We didn’t do anything wrong, mister," he stammered. "We were just trying to — "

"Shut it," I cut him off. "You’re all gonna drop dead if you keep eating that crap. What the hell is going on here? Doesn’t anyone take care of you in this dump?"

The boy looked down, clenching his fists.
"The Temple priests say we have to pray harder to earn divine protection. But… but we already prayed a lot, and our moms and dads still died. It’s our fault. We didn’t pray hard enough, so God punished us."

Ah, of course. The robe-wearing bastards and their favorite sermon.
“Pray harder, parasites, and maybe we’ll pretend to care.”
“God punishes those who don’t pray enough.”
Typical exploitation of misery to cement their power.

"Where do you live?"

One of the kids pointed timidly at the crumbling bakery.
Of course. Not even an orphanage — just abandoned kids living in ruins while adults conveniently look the other way.

I sighed and rummaged through my satchel. I pulled out a few of the remedies I’d prepared the day before — basic stomach-soothing decoctions and antiseptic powders — as well as a chunk of bread from breakfast.

"Here," I said, handing it all over. "And stop digging through garbage, you idiots. You want worms? Septicemia? A slow, shitty death?"

They stared at the offerings like I’d just handed them jewels. The smallest, a little girl of about seven with hair so tangled it looked like a bird’s nest, tugged timidly on my sleeve.

"Mister… are you a healer from the Temple?"

"No," I snapped, harsher than intended. "I’m a doctor, not a con artist."

She didn’t understand the nuance, but nodded solemnly anyway.

"Mama said healers are nice, but they cost too much. So we have to pray instead."

A lump rose in my throat. Damn it. These kids dragged up memories I’d buried deep — my mother’s desperate prayers, the divine promises that never amounted to anything, the orphanage back in Clermont-Ferrand…

"Listen up," I growled, crouching to their level. "If you don’t want to die in the next six months, you’re going to do exactly what I say. First, you NEVER eat anything off the ground or out of trash bins. Ever. Even if you’re starving."

"But mister, we don’t have anything else…"

"I’m not done talking. Second, only drink boiled water. If you can’t boil it, you don’t drink it. And wash your hands before eating. With soap."

The older boy frowned.
"S… soap? What’s that?"

God, I sometimes forget how backward this world is.

I gave them a crash course in basic hygiene, simplified as much as possible. They listened with the reverence of disciples before a prophet.

That’s when Pururun, who’d been quietly bouncing nearby, suddenly changed color — from translucent to a worried pink — and clung to my leg.

"What now?" I muttered.

She gestured — or at least I think that’s what she did — toward the corner of the alley. I followed her “arm” and spotted a familiar redhead peeking at us from behind a wall.

Lena.

"How long have you been spying on us?" I called out without turning.

She jumped and stepped out, face flushed red.
"I-I wasn’t spying! I was just passing by!"

"Yeah, and I’m the Pope."

She shuffled closer, avoiding my gaze. The kids instinctively huddled together, wary of this newcomer.

"Was it true?" she asked softly. "That you were going to help them?"

"Of course it’s true. You think I’ve got nothing better to do than lie to orphans?"

She looked at the children with an unreadable mix of sadness and guilt.

"Maybe… maybe Mom and I could give them the inn’s leftovers instead of throwing them away."

"Brilliant idea. And while you’re at it, maybe teach them how to use the soap you’re making now."

Her face lit up.
"Yes! And the… what do you call them? Siwak?"

"Exactly."

She turned to the kids, who were watching wide-eyed.
"Come to the inn tomorrow morning," she said with a warm smile. "We’ll give you food and show you how to wash properly."

The oldest boy hesitated.
"Really? You’d really help us?"

"Of course," Lena replied with surprising conviction. "Right, Ethan?"

I shrugged, uncomfortable with this sudden outbreak of charity.
"Yeah, yeah. But you’ll follow instructions exactly. No improvisation."

They nodded enthusiastically, like puppies offered a bone. Pururun relaxed, returning to her normal color, and began bouncing happily around the kids, who stared at her in fascination.

"What’s that… thing?" asked the little girl.

"That’s Pururun. My assistant. And she’s got a nasty temper, as the redhead here can confirm, so don’t piss her off."

Right on cue, Pururun shot a little blob of toothpaste past Lena’s head. It splatted against the wall with a loud pop. The kids burst into laughter for the first time since we’d met.

Lena gave me a strange look — half amused, half something else.

"What?" I grumbled.

"Nothing," she said, stepping closer. "You’re just… really kind. Why do you pretend to be such a grouch?"

"I’m not pretending! I am a grouch. Ask anyone."

"If you say so…"

She was now way too close. I could smell her — fresh bread and our soap. Her green eyes locked onto mine with unsettling intensity.

Then, without warning, she rose on tiptoe and kissed me.

It lasted maybe three seconds, but my brain crashed like an old computer. When she pulled away, I was frozen, mouth half open, eyes wide.

Pururun turned crimson with outrage, vibrating like an angry kettle. She launched herself at Lena, ready to throw down, but I caught her mid-air.

"Easy, jelly. No murders in front of the kids."

Lena burst out laughing, clearly delighted by my reaction.
"If I’d known it was that easy to shut you up, I’d have done it earlier!"

The orphans stared, bewildered. The oldest boy frowned.
"Why did she put her mouth on your mouth?"

"Excellent question," I muttered, glaring at Lena. "I’d like to know too."

She stuck her tongue out playfully and turned back to the kids.
"Come on. Let’s show you where to wash for now."

They followed her without hesitation, leaving me alone with a sulking Pururun in my arms. She fired a small toothpaste blob at my cheek in protest.

As I watched them disappear down the street, a familiar thought crept in.
Every time I’d played the Good Samaritan in my old life, it had ended badly.

Maybe this time would be different.
Maybe.

Or maybe not.