"Twenty-two, twenty-three," a soft voice counts, a dark hand on top of each child's head in sync with the numbers. The little ones rush inside, talking amongst eachother about what they were playing moments before, what could Mother Marilyn have made for lunch and the like. The simple topics bring a smile to Caritas' face as he rounds up with the last of them. They remind him of the sheep his father used to care for; if not a little less soft and a little more stubborn about leaving the outdoors.

Caritas didn't remember much of his days before the church. He left behind his life then, his name. Before Storge, The church of family, and The flourishing one took him in. He had a mother, a father, as does everyone. A sister, a brother. Had as far as he knows now. Their fate and his memory of them was swallowed up in the fire their home fell victim to. No matter their place now, he prays for them daily still.

All twenty-five of the little ones make it inside, their steps echoing in the halls with no particular rhythm. Clumsily, admittedly, when they get in such a rush when the bell for lunch is rung.

"They are quite rowdy, are they not?" Caritas mentions to the caretaker next to him, his gaze trailing after the last boy who's catching up to the group. "I doubt we'll get through washing up without a flood on the floor."