Chapter 76

  ? The Weight of Staying ?

  Back in the orphanage, the doors were shut again.

  The echo of the visitor’s steps had long faded, but the air hadn’t settled. It still felt slightly off, as if something had been moved and not put back where it belonged.

  Sarah sat cross-legged on the floor near the wall, holding her hands up in front of her face. She twisted her fingers clumsily, trying to mimic the little traveler’s gesture Vince had shown her earlier—thumb brushing two fingers, then folding away. She frowned, tried again. It wasn’t quite right.

  A couple of older girls crouched beside her, laughing softly, correcting her, turning it into a game.

  “No, like this—see?”

  “No, he did it slower.”

  “Sarah, you’re doing it upside down.”

  Sarah giggled, undeterred, trying again.

  Mira stood a few steps away, near the banister.

  She hadn’t moved much since the door had closed. Her shoulders were stiff, her hands still curled at her sides. The feeling from earlier—tight, cold, crawling—hadn’t left her chest. If anything, it had settled deeper, like something waiting.

  Maggie noticed.

  She approached with sharp steps, arms crossed, irritation plain on her face.

  “You keep hurting this place’s reputation,” she said, not bothering to lower her voice.

  Mira didn’t even look up, eyes fixed on a dark knot in the wooden floor.

  Maggie scoffed. “The one time we get a man in here—a polite one, a warm one—and a donor, no less, you pull that?” She gestured sharply. “Clinging to Sister Agnes like you’d seen a ghost? Staring at him like that?”

  Still nothing from Mira.

  Maggie leaned closer.

  “Do you have any idea how that looked?”

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  Sister Agnes emerged from below, smoothing her sleeves, her expression already set. She took in the scene in a single glance—Mira’s posture, Maggie’s tone, the children on the floor.

  “Maggie,” she said evenly. “That’s enough.”

  Maggie turned, exasperated.

  “He may stop donating! He looked irritated by Mira's behavior for a moment!”

  “Let me worry about that, dear. Can you go back to the kitchen and help with the bowls for me? Lunch time is almost here and we're too late. Mira and I will join you in a second.”

  Maggie exhaled, calming herself, then spoke again.

  "Alright... but what about the man in the washroom? He can't stay here! The girls are calmer but not me!"

  "For now we're safe. Don't worry. He won't stay long."

  Maggie gave Mira one last glare before heading back to the kitchen with the old ones, trying to juggle eavesdropping and the chores.

  Sister Agnes approached without sound and stopped beside Mira.

  They stood together for a moment.

  “You scared Maggie,” Agnes said gently.

  Mira didn’t look up.

  “I know.”

  Agnes studied her profile. The tension hadn’t left her shoulders. If anything, it had rooted deeper.

  “You scared me too,” Agnes added. “And I need to understand why.”

  Mira’s fingers flexed once, then curled back into her sleeves.

  “I didn’t mean to,” she muttered. “I just—”

  She stopped.

  Agnes waited.

  “You were about to give him the man downstairs,” Mira said suddenly, voice low. “Willingly.”

  Agnes blinked.

  “Yes. I thought he could help us. Take him to the police, maybe... Do you think he was acting? Or… after him?”

  Mira shook her head once.

  “I don’t know.”

  She finally looked up.

  “I didn’t hear what he said when he came in,” she went on. “But this is the slums. Grown ups don’t open like that. Not here. Not in such a short time.”

  Agnes’s brow furrowed.

  “What kind of man,” Mira said, words starting to tangle, “smiles like that in here? With all what's going on? He walks into a place like this and... makes everyone warm in a minute or two?”

  She rubbed her palm against her sleeve, restless.

  “I’ve seen Leo run a room,” she continued, faster now. “But it took time. Effort. He had to... do introduction stuff, ask questions, listen... Make everyone feel seen—like equals, you know?”

  Her jaw tightened.

  “That kind of trust costs something.”

  Agnes studied her, really looked at her now—the stiff posture, the guarded eyes, the way she stood half a step in front of her without realizing it.

  “You felt it before you understood it,” Agnes said.

  Mira shrugged, small.

  “I just… didn’t like how fast it happened. That's all.”

  Agnes let out a breath through her nose, slow and uneven. She reached up and rubbed at her forehead, fingers pressing briefly as if trying to push the day back into place.

  “For now,” she said, quieter than before, “The man stays. His name is Rocco. I just spoke with him... He looks innocent. He himself doesn't know what suddenly made those men come after him all of a sudden."

  Mira swallowed. The unfairness of the situation made her stomach twist.

  "If you're right about the donor from earlier," Agnes carried on. "he might still be watching the building... So I can't allow Rocco to leave now."

  She carried on, looking at the stairs that lead to the basement.

  "I locked the washroom from the outside. No one goes near it except me. I don't trust anyone in here near the girls and the nuns. He didn't complain either. I'll sneak him out later at night.”

  "But... Mira," she looked at Mira, "This could have been avoided if we let him leave from the start. The whole building is in danger now. That was... immature from you."

  Mira’s fists clenched. Her shoulders squared.

  "I… couldn't abandon him."

  "Mira—"

  “I’M NOT SORRY!” she yelled, her voice cracking with fire and exhaustion.

  Agnes pressed her lips together, ready to snap back, to shout, to put the girl in her place—until she saw it.

  Tears clung to Mira’s lashes, stubborn and bright. Not pleading. Not explained. Just the weight of everything she had carried alone.

  Mira’s voice dropped to a whisper, ragged and trembling. Her knees threatened to give, her chest heaving, but she didn’t look away.

  “I’m… not … abandoning anyone...”

  The words broke. Tears spilled freely now, unashamed. Her gaze stayed locked on Agnes—burning, desperate, unflinching, as if daring the world to deny her.

  Something in Agnes stilled.

  She saw it as clearly as if it were happening again: a basket left at the orphanage door. A newborn wrapped in a threadbare blanket, barely warm. No footsteps left to follow. Only the certainty that whoever had carried the child there had not looked back.

  She saw the years after—Mira moving through the dormitory at night, careful and deliberate, tucking the younger girls in one by one. Smoothing blankets. Murmuring reassurances she did not need herself. Staying until every small hand released its grip, until every breath in the room had evened out.

  And sometimes—rarely—Agnes heard her.

  Late, when the lamps were low and the dormitory was meant to be asleep. A muffled sound from Mira’s bed. The mattress shifting. A face turned into the pillow, arms locked tight around herself.

  “Pa…”

  A breath.

  “Ma…”

  The words were never said aloud again. Not in daylight. Not where anyone could answer.

  Agnes learned not to go to her then. Learned that Mira needed those moments alone. By morning, she would be back on her feet.

  It eased, a little, after two boys arrived. The crying did not vanish, but it came less often. Shorter.

  Eventually, they both... left. At different times. In very different ways.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  And through it all, Mira kept walking the dormitory at night. Tucking blankets. Waiting for small hands to let go. Carrying what she would not set down.

  Agnes stepped forward and, without a word, wrapped her arms around Mira. Tight. Steady. Unyielding.

  Mira’s body folded into her. Her knees gave way as the sobs finally broke free—raw, uncontained. Agnes anchored her, bearing the weight without flinching.

  Light from the windows stretched across the floorboards, soft and patient. Outside, the world pressed and clamored. In here, it loosened its grip—just enough.

  When Mira’s breathing slowed, Agnes spoke quietly, close to her ear.

  “Come,” she said. “Wash your face. Then let’s help Maggie and the others in the kitchen. That’s enough for now.”

  Mira nodded, her face still buried against Agnes’s shoulder.

  For now—right or wrong—Agnes did not let go.

  The police main headquarters stood just off the Plaza, too close to the heart of the city to be ignored, too far to be protected by its elegance.

  The crowd had been gathering earlier each day, thickening like fog that refused to lift.

  Today, someone had brought a sign.

  Rough cardboard, torn from a crate. Black paint still wet enough to glisten. The letters were uneven, angry, pressed hard:

  DO YOUR BLOODY JOBS.

  It bobbed above the heads near the front, drawing murmurs—approval, unease. Farther back, where faces blurred into caps and scarves, stones began to fly. One bounced off the station steps. Another skidded across the cobbles and shattered a lamp.

  Constables formed a line before the doors, boots squared, batons low but ready. Whistles shrilled in short, sharp bursts. Hands gestured—back, back, back—but no one truly expected retreat. Orders were orders. Hold. Don’t strike first.

  Everyone in the line knew how it would end.

  The fountain in the plaza gurgled no more. Its basin, cracked and dry, caught the sun’s light in pale glints.

  Noor was not there.

  Not in the crowd. Not beside the edges of danger. Not one coin jingled in her case. Not one spectator followed her. She had gone home early, leaving the chaos behind, leaving the plaza to its own roar.

  The water was gone. The noise remained.

  A couple of streets away, the library door creaked open behind Dante, letting out a spill of lamplight and dust-warm air. A pen in his mouth like a cigar, a hand in his pocket and the other carrying a few papers. He stepped onto the street with a grin already waiting, lifting his thumb in the same crooked way he always did—half joking, half proud.

  Scored good today on the excercices.

  Alex, leaning against the brick wall across the way, answered without a word. He flicked an apple from his palm. It arced once through the air.

  Dante caught it on instinct, laughed under his breath, and turned it over in his hands. “You’re spoiling me,” he said, but there was no heat in it. Just habit.

  “Mr. Harris gave it to me,” Alex replied, pushing off the wall. “To make up for paying me less.”

  “Ah,” Dante nodded solemnly, biting into it anyway. “Then I accept this bribe on his behalf.”

  "Tomorrow we start writing long paragraphs and sentences, Dante. You're very good at reading now."

  "You think? I still misspell a lot of words."

  "Only the difficult ones, but maybe with writing you will get even better. It's worth a try, and I want to make sure you're having fun too."

  "Okay, teacher!"

  They fell into step together, boots scuffing the stones, shoulders nearly brushing. For a few seconds, the city felt smaller—contained to the rhythm of walking, the crunch of apple skin, the quiet relief of having the day behind them.

  Then the noise reached them.

  Shouts, sharp and layered. Whistles cutting through the air. A sound like stone skidding over stone.

  As they neared the Plaza, the crowd came into view—thick, restless, swelling against the police headquarters.

  Dante’s grin faded as his eyes swept the scene.

  Alex slowed beside him.

  "More people today... it gets bigger every time." he muttered.

  "Looks like Noor went home early today too." Dante said as his eyes danced between the fountain and the crowd.

  "I hope it's not too hard for her. I want to make sure she is... eating enough." Alex added. "I'll try coming here earlier tomorrow morning."

  "She is smart. I'm sure she has savings." Dante grinned, patting Alex's shoulder. "The fact she went home early confirms that."

  Alex spoke again, steadier.

  "You're right. Let's hope Dominick is home today. We have to get some information to give to Leo..."

  "True. It's been days and Leo might lose patience if we don't give him something to work with. I hear he is assembling kids around or something."

  "You think we will find him home today? Dominick?"

  Dante sighed.

  "I doubt he would show himself in the middle of this chaos. But you never know... maybe he will give us some sort of job like usual. Let's hope it won't be at night. Very dangerous."

  Alex hesitated for a moment, then called, barely audible.

  "Dante..."

  "What?"

  "I... need to talk to you."

  “Unless the words started moving on the page, I did my best.”

  "I'm serious."

  Dante's eyes widened as he stopped, fully facing Alex.

  "Everything alright?"

  Alex didn't speak right away as the crowd's noise filled the silence between them.

  “At the party…” he hesitated. “I… don’t know how to explain it. Dominick was… kind to me.”

  Dante leaned closer, eyebrows raised.

  "Kind how?"

  "Well... you know how I never took his money. So after the party, he... put me on his shoulders to reward me."

  Dante blinked, thinking for a moment.

  "He never did that to me. But I'm sure it's one of his tricks. You wouldn't fall that. Not you, right?"

  "It... didn't look like one."

  Dante froze.

  "It felt real." Alex carried on, voice small, hesitant, unsure. Slowly, he lifted his eyes, looking for Dante's expression, hoping he would understand. "Maybe... maybe he is changing? Maybe I reached him?"

  "Be careful now, Alex." Dante said, worry all over his face. "That's... close to what I felt all this time before. Don't lose your way on me now."

  Alex's eyes returned to the ground, ashamed as Dante continued.

  "He is not a criminal anymore? One that uses us children for mob jobs instead of putting us in school? Unless he told you he'd stop what he does once and for all, I'm not buying it!"

  "He said he would give us... less dangerous missions—"

  "So let me get this right!" Dante interrupted, losing patience all of a sudden. "When I say that Vince is nice to have around, or show gratitude towards Dominick who took me in, THAT is wrong! But now you're playing father and son with him?!"

  "I didn't mean—"

  "What did you mean?! I promised you that I'm done admiring them that night on the rooftop! Now it's you who is falling for them?"

  "No, Dante! No! I swear!"

  Dante paused, and took a breath, realizing he snapped more than he meant. Imagining Alex on top of Dominick's shoulders... terrified him.

  His expression though didn't soften. He patiently waited for an explanation, hands no longer in his pockets, his fists clinching so hard, eyes never leaving Alex.

  "It... just happened. We had a conversation... and he didn't justify what he does. I felt... more respect towards him."

  "More?" Dante's lips parted.

  Alex's eyes widened at his own words.

  "So that story Vince told you left quite the mark." Dante's voice dropped. "How Dominick got your parents out of trouble and all that... And here I thought we think the same way of him."

  Dante looked at him fully, hoping he would deny it... but he didn't.

  “Answer me honestly.” he said. “Are you still the boy who woke my sleeping conscience?…”

  His jaw tightened.

  “…or are you becoming who I was?”

  Alex thought for a moment... and that alone made Dante, who hoped for an instant answer, flinch.

  "I'm still the same." Alex said, determined, firm and steady.

  Suddenly, Dante resumed walking, back turned.

  "Dante?"

  "That wasn't convincing enough. So no more lectures from you." Dante said, not bothering to stop, "I'm doing my homework alone until you understand yourself."

  But his expression was broken, his fists clinched inside his pockets so hard, his eyes full of worry.

  Alex caught up to him, but refrained from speaking.

  He checked for his face, but Dante kept looking in front of him, recomposing himself.

  "I'll... stop by and buy some food for the little mute girl on my way. Is that alright?" Alex asked.

  "Whatever." Dante answered dryly, eyes up front.

  They still walked together like always.

  Only farther than usual today.

  Still, neither of them left the other's side.

  The usual black coats had been roaming the slums for days. The people had learned to give them space, to flatten themselves into shadows, to breathe as quietly as the damp mist that clung to the streets.

  Today, three of them stopped by a small shop. The bell above the door rang once, but it sounded more like a warning than a greeting.

  The man at the counter looked up too late.

  “Morning,” one said, already sliding photographs across the wood. Faces caught mid-step, thumb-smudged, frozen in moments that no longer belonged to them.

  “You recognize any of them?”

  The shopkeeper glanced once. Too quick to matter.

  “No.”

  A slap struck sideways, sharp and intimate, a warning that heat could come before pain.

  “Did you even look?”

  He leaned forward again, slower this time. His hand shook where it touched the counter.

  “I swear. No.”

  “Good.”

  The photographs were gathered, then replaced—careful, deliberate, as if order itself carried authority.

  “They stay here,” the man said. “If one of them walks in, you remember this conversation.”

  A pause, heavy and patient.

  “You shelter them,” he added, voice lowered. “It won’t be a slap.”

  The shopkeeper nodded, jaw tight, fingers twitching.

  Outside, the slum seemed to shrink around them. The black coats’ boots left wet prints on cobblestones. Windows shuttered. Children ducked beneath tables. Every drip, every cat’s yowl felt amplified—like the city itself was holding its breath.

  The black coats turned as one, leaving behind a quiet authority that pressed down on the shop like the damp fog outside. The bell above the door rang again, sharper this time.

  The shopkeeper did not move. Not yet. He rested a hand on the counter, tracing the edge of the photographs as if doing so could keep him alive.

  Then—

  Whistles.

  The three men stepped outside.

  From the opposite end, the blue coats came—more than before, more composed.

  This time... it was different than the ones before.

  Guns were drawn. Not just batons.

  Their boots clattered against the cobblestones in measured rhythm, a law marching into the chaos it had long tolerated.

  “Hands where we can see ‘em!” the constable at the front announced, voice flat, precise, as if he were reading from a ledger. “Now!”

  The black coats stopped. Hands brushed their pockets, casual, deliberate. Time seemed to pause in the slums.

  “Oh, no… broad daylight now,” the shopkeeper muttered, pulling his shutters down. “As if the night’s gunfire wasn’t enough.”

  Mothers hurried behind curtains, children pressed to their sides.

  Curious heads peeked from alleys, from the corner windows of tenements, but no one dared cross the street. The air smelled of mud, smoke, and tension so thick it tasted of iron.

  The black coats’ eyes flicked to the watchers. Each face, each gesture, each heart racing in fear—they memorized it. Fear was the currency. Efficiency was a luxury. The Dons demanded dread.

  One of them’s hand slid to a pistol in his coat.

  “Freeze!” the constable barked, revolver leveled, the others behind following suit.

  Screams tore through the streets as civilians scattered—hats and shawls whipped up in panic, crates toppled, a dog barked frantically.

  “Or what? You’ll fire?” one black coat called out, voice calm, cutting.

  “If you give yourselves up, we won’t have to,” the constable replied, teeth clenched.

  Time seemed to slow. The crowd froze, breaths held. Dust swirled in the sunlight. Every eye was fixed on the street.

  One wrong move and the day would explode.

  Finally… the black coats raised their hands slowly, in perfect sync. Smirks danced across their faces.

  “Looks like the blue suits have finally lost their wits,” one drawled.

  “You know we’ll be walking free in days,” another added, voice low, amused.

  “On your knees!” the constables shouted, advancing with revolvers raised.

  The black coats didn’t move.

  “Your superior is underestimating ours,” one said, eyes glinting. “I see you, pig. Don’t think I’ll forget that face.”

  A baton swung. It struck with a sharp crack. The constable’s teeth clenched, jaw twitching as he forced himself to stay steady. His fingers ached on the handle, knuckles white. Heart hammering, sweat prickled along his temples.

  Another constable took a careful step forward. His boots scuffed on the cobblestones. Breath came too fast, shallow, and he blinked repeatedly, trying to steady it. The daylight only made the mob’s calm more terrifying.

  The first constable—blood rising from a split lip, pulse pounding—let out a hiss between teeth.

  From the alleys and shutters, civilians pressed closer, eyes wide. They saw the law—grappling, sweating, straining.

  Inside the buildings, families gathered behind half-drawn curtains and cracked doors. Mothers pressed palms over mouths—not to scream, but to keep the sound in. Someone had dragged a table across a doorway upstairs. Somewhere, a candle guttered as hands shook too badly to steady it.

  A boy leaned out from behind his father’s coat, eyes bright despite the fear curling in his stomach.

  “Serves them right!” he blurted, voice cutting too loud through the hush. “They’re catching them! Look—look! Finally they’re doing their job!”

  He tugged at his father’s sleeve, grinning. “Right, Papa?”

  The man did not answer.

  He hadn’t even heard him.

  His eyes were fixed on the street—on the way the constables’ hands trembled, on the way the black coats did not.

  The boy’s smile faltered.

  Around them, the slum seemed to darken, though the sun still hung overhead.

  This was what it looked like when the law stepped forward.

  The people had begged for this moment. Whispered for it. Prayed for it.

  Now that it had come, no one cheered.

  It wasn't how they quite imagined it would be.

  It wasn't the dream sight they hoped to see.

  It was terrifying.