Cherry

  I wake up te.

  The wind howls outside, rattling the orphanage’s brittle walls, but I don’t move right away. The bnkets are warm, clinging to me like vines. I really want to stay buried in them. But I can’t. I’m already behind.

  I push myself up, groggy and slow. My hair is a mess—worse than usual—and I barely manage to shove it out of my face as I stumble toward the door. The floor creaks beneath my steps, the orphanage groaning like an old man, as if it resents me for not waking up sooner.

  The kitchen is supposed to be empty. It always is. I’m the one who does breakfast.

  But Klev is there.

  He’s setting down ptes, casual, like this is something he does every morning. The sight stops me in my tracks.

  "Wow," I say, still half-asleep. "Did I hit my head on the way down?"

  Klev gnces up, smirking. "Good morning to you too, Cherry. Don’t worry, you’re not hallucinating. Unless you're seeing me as a noble hero, bravely saving the household from starvation.”

  I blink, my brain catching up. "You’re… helping?"

  "I know. Shocking," he says, pcing another pte down. “Figured I should, since someone’s making everything ten times harder around here."

  Zett.

  I let out a breath, shaking my head. "I should be the one thanking him, then."

  "You really shouldn't," Klev says, grinning. "He’s the reason I’m suffering."

  Breakfast is easier with an extra pair of hands. For a moment, I let myself enjoy the small mercy.

  But the day doesn’t stay easy.

  Zett has changed.

  Since the blood oath, he’s restless. More than that—he’s going wild. A force that never stops moving.

  He runs. Every day. Through the forest, into the unknown, like something out there is calling him. He comes back covered in dirt, in leaves, in streaks of mud that cling to the floors no matter how hard I scrub them.

  He eats. More than he should. Three times what’s normal, clearing his pte with a focus that borders on obsession.

  He’s active, too active—climbing things, jumping over fences, bancing on railings while holding rocks on his hands. And it doesn’t help. It doesn’t make anything better. It just makes my days harder.

  The orphanage is stretched thin as it is. The food. The chores. The constant mess. I can’t keep up with him.

  And today is the st straw.

  He bursts through the door, dripping water, tracking mud, ughing. His hair is soaked, his grin wide.

  "You won’t believe the river I found!" he says, breathless. "It was rushing fast—I mean, really fast—but I jumped in. The current almost took me!"

  Klev looks up from his carving, unimpressed. "Did your brain get washed out or did you just lose a fight with common sense?"

  Zett ughs, shaking water from his sleeves. "Come on, it was awesome."

  I don’t ugh. I don’t even smile. I watch the water drip from his clothes onto the floor I’ll have to wipe ter. I think of the food disappearing faster than we can afford. I think of how tired I am, how I'll barely get a break today. And I know—

  I know he’s going through something.

  But I can’t carry it for him.

  "Zett."

  He turns, still beaming.

  "We need to talk."

  The words dim his expression. But he nods, following me to the side.

  I exhale, trying to find the right way to say this. "You need to stop."

  "Stop what?"

  "This," I gesture at him—at the dirt, the exhaustion he's clinging onto like it it's actually important. "Running through the forest. Coming back like this. Eating more than we have to spare. I know you think—"

  "I need it," he interrupts. His voice is firm. "To be strong."

  I press my fingers against my temple. "Zett, you don’t need to—"

  "I do," he says. His face is serious now, more than I’ve ever seen it. "Cherry. I know what I need to do."

  The way he says it—it sends a chill through me.

  I want to argue. I want to tell him that he’s just a kid, that he doesn’t have to carry something like this. That being strong isn’t about running himself into the ground.

  But I see it in his eyes.

  This isn’t something I can take from him.

  So I say the wrong thing.

  I tell him he’s making things harder. I tell him the orphanage isn’t built for this.

  And he looks at me—hurt.

  Then he turns, without another word, and walks away.

  The second he does, I want to call him back. But I don't. Instead, I just stand there, watching the water puddle he left behind, realizing too te that I should have said something else.

  He’s going through something—something important. And I told him to stop.

  I shouldn’t have said that.