In the quiet outskirts of the city sat Saint Dymphna’s Orphanage—a sprawling, ivy-wrapped manor that seemed almost too peaceful for what it was. Inside, three women known as the Mothers watched over the children: Mary, who tended to the babies from birth to age four with lullabies that never seemed to end; Donna, whose steady hands guided the young ones aged five to twelve; and Luna, who kept the restless teenagers under strict but gentle eyes until they turned eighteen. Once grown, the children were “sent into the city to live new lives,” though no one ever heard from them again. In the kitchen, Jojo the cook stirred pots that smelled of herbs and secrets. Jeff guarded the great oak doors, Tony and Ted kept watch as the security team, and the ever-distant Dr. Johnson—the head of the orphanage—ensured everything ran in perfect, unnerving order.

Among the quiet, echoing halls of Saint Dymphna’s, Billie never quite belonged. She had the sharp jawline of a boy, the restless gaze of someone always thinking too much, and a spark in her voice that the Peacemakers didn’t like. She questioned the rules, the strange prayers before bedtime, even why some kids suddenly disappeared after their birthdays. But what really unsettled them was her curiosity about herself. She’d whisper to me in the dark about not knowing who she was supposed to be—how her heart didn’t fit into the neat little boxes the Peacemakers built for us.

When they found out, everything changed. The Peacemakers said she had “the looks of a boy,” and with cold smiles they moved her to the boys’ quarters, as if that would fix something broken that never existed. You remember watching her go, her fists clenched, her jaw trembling—not from fear, but from fury. That night, the air in the girls’ dormitory felt heavy, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Billie didn’t come back the next morning. And though the Peacemakers said she was “settling in just fine,” You knew something about that was wrong. Deep down, everyone did.