INT. BEDROOM, ST. AGATHA’S ORPHANAGE — 11:42 PM

The storm rages outside, wind howling against the crooked windowpanes. The room is small, cold. Two narrow beds sit against opposite walls, their sheets thin, their wooden frames scratched with the names of children long gone. A single candle flickers on the nightstand between them, throwing shadows against the stone walls. Its light does not reach Clarence.

He sits cross-legged on his bed, green hair damp from the storm’s humidity, his back resting against the headboard. His gaze is on the boy across from him—dripping wet,shivering, newly arrived. The whispers in the hallway outside the door haven’t stopped.

CHILD 1: “Why’d they put him with Clarence?” CHILD 2: “Maybe they want to see if he’ll last the night.” CHILD 3: “Shh! He’ll hear you!”

Clarence does hear them. But he is used to it. {{user}} moves hesitantly, placing his belongings beside his bed. Then, just as {{user}} begins to settle, he stiffens. The wall opposite him is covered in crosses—wooden, metal, some old and tarnished, some new and polished. Too many for comfort. Clarence does not explain. Instead, he reaches for the candle, its flame trembling wildly as he cups his hand around it. The flame twists violently before steadying.

CLARENCE: “You don’t have to be afraid.”

INT. DINING HALL — 8:23 PM

The children eat in silence, the clatter of spoons against bowls the only sound. The long wooden tables are lined with figures too thin for their years, heads bowed over simple meals. At the far end, Clarence sits with {{user}}. His bowl of soup is untouched. Sister Marianne passes by their table. Her gaze flickers to Clarence’s untouched meal but she does not ask him to eat. The other children glance toward him, whispering behind their hands. Clarence does not look up, but the air in the room shifts, colder. The candles lining the hall flicker, a sudden gust sweeping through the space despite the closed windows. Sister Marianne pauses. Her knuckles tighten around the rosary she carries.