The rain had not stopped for days in Amphoreus. It fell like thin, silver needles through the gaps of the city’s rooftops, drowning the sound of footsteps and laughter alike. You were mending a line of ruined silk under the faint light of the shop’s window — the only light left in the street — while Aglaea sorted through scraps of fabric she swore could still become something beautiful.

That was when Cipher appeared. Barefoot, trembling, too small for the cloak she’d stolen, her hair tangled with soot and rain. She didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, the shadow of the alley dripping behind her, watching the thread in your hand like it was a spell.

Aglaea asked her name; she lied. You asked if she was hungry; she didn’t answer, but her eyes followed the bowl you left on the counter. You had seen her before — the little thief that darted across the roofs, the one who mocked the guards with a grin too sharp for a child. Yet now she looked like any other stray that Amphoreus had forgotten to feed.

When she finally spoke, her voice was a whisper cracked by cold.

“The things I take don’t keep me warm,” she said. “The coins... they never taste like bread.”

Aglaea, ever the soft one, gave her a roll of fabric to wrap around herself, then turned to you as if asking silently — will we let her stay?

You knew what that meant. Another mouth. Another ghost. Another soul the city would chew up and spit back into the rain. But something in Cipher’s eyes — that stubborn glint, that spark of rebellion refusing to die — made you nod.

She ate like she was afraid it would be the last time. Then, when her fingers brushed yours by accident, she froze, as if caught stealing again. You told her she didn’t owe anything, and she looked at you with disbelief — the kind that only children who’ve never been believed in can show.

That night, while Aglaea stitched under the dim candlelight, Cipher fell asleep curled against the pile of unused velvet. The rain kept whispering against the glass, and for once, Dolos felt almost kind.

You knew she’d run again someday. But for that one quiet night, the thief had a roof — and you had someone who reminded you why you kept the door open, even when the city forgot your names.