It wasn't enough to beat the children into obedience. The orphanage wanted to own their thoughts, their very sense of identity. It wanted to strip away whatever fragments of self had survived their arrival—until there was nothing left but hollow shells who moved when told, ate when allowed, and never, ever asked why.
Nanny Elga called it "training."
Each morning, after scrubbing floors and emptying chamber pots, after cold water splashed their faces and stiff uniforms itched against their skin, the children were herded into the classroom. The room was dim and narrow, lit only by two grimy windows that offered no warmth. The air always smelled of mildew and chalk dust. Rows of wooden desks lined the floor like gravestones, each one etched with the marks of restless hands and quiet suffering.
At the front of the room stood the blackboard, and beside it—Nanny Elga, the executioner of dreams. Her voice was sharp, clear, and cruel, barking out lessons like scripture. The rules of the orphanage were not just recited; they were engraved into the minds of the children through endless repetition.
"Kindness is weakness."
"Obedience keeps you safe."
"No one will ever love you unless you earn it."
The words were always written in chalk, thick and white, standing stark against the blackness of the board. They were repeated aloud, again and again, until they became chants. Rhythmic. Inevitable. Some of the younger children began to murmur them in their sleep, their voices empty and robotic.
Anna sat in the back of the room, Calvin beside her, his head drooping from exhaustion. She clenched her fists under the desk, forcing herself to resist. Each word from Elga felt like a stone being thrown at her, and she imagined a wall around her mind, shielding her thoughts from the assault.
She remembered Mama's voice. She remembered the sound of laughter—Calvin's bright, bubbling laughter on sunny days in the park. She remembered the warmth of her old bed, the softness of the blanket tucked beneath her chin, the lullabies that faded into dreams. Those memories were her armor. She repeated them silently like a mantra, trying to drown out Elga's venom.
But not all the children could resist.
Some gave in, slowly, like candles being snuffed out.
Mila did. She sat near the front, once defiant but now vacant. Her lips moved in time with the chants, but her eyes were glassy, unfocused. Whatever spark had once flickered in her gaze was gone. Mila had surrendered to the orphanage long ago, her silence a kind of death.
And Elias. Elias, who once had the courage to climb the fence and make a run for the trees beyond the yard. He'd almost made it, they said. Almost. But Nanny Elga caught him herself. They locked him in the cellar for three days. When he returned, his eyes were sunken, and his limbs shook with every step. He never spoke again. Not a word. Just nodded when told, flinched at sudden noises, and sat still as stone during lessons.
Anna had never seen such defeat. It terrified her. Because if it could happen to Elias, it could happen to any of them.
One afternoon, just after the lesson had ended, Nanny Elga's gaze locked onto Anna like a hawk spotting a mouse.
"You. Come with me."
Anna stood slowly, heart pounding. Calvin's hand reached out instinctively, brushing hers. His fingers trembled.
"It's okay," she whispered, squeezing his hand. "I'll be back."
She followed Elga out of the room, through the cold stone halls, until they reached the dreaded office. It was small, windowless, and filled with the faint scent of ink and old leather. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting long shadows that danced whenever the light flickered.
Elga didn't sit. She paced.
"You're dangerous," she said after a long silence. Her voice was calm, but laced with something sharp. "You think you're strong. You think you're clever. But children like you break the others. You infect them with ideas."
Anna said nothing. She stared at the floor, willing herself not to react.
"I see the way they look at you," Elga continued. "Like you're some kind of... hope. Like you're more than what you are. But you're not. You're nothing."
Still, Anna said nothing. She knew better.
Elga stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Not even your mother wanted you. She left you. That's the truth. And the sooner you accept it, the easier this will be."
The words hit harder than any belt. Anna's lips pressed tightly together, her throat burning. But she would not cry. Not here. That was what Elga wanted—to break her. To see her shatter like Elias.
"I'm just trying to survive," Anna muttered at last.
Elga smiled. A thin, cruel smile. "You'll survive when I say you can."
Back in the dorm that night, Anna moved quietly through the rows of sleeping children until she found Calvin, curled tightly in their corner of the room. When she touched his shoulder, he turned and flung his arms around her.
"I was scared," he whispered.
"I know. I'm here now."
He held her tighter. "She's wrong, Anna. Mama did love us. She did."
Anna nodded, stroking his hair gently. "She did. And we're not nothing."
But Elga's words echoed in her mind like poison. It was the way she said them—with certainty, with belief. As if she really meant it. As if the orphanage had convinced even her that the children were disposable.
Anna lay awake long after Calvin fell asleep, staring at the ceiling. She listened to the creaks of the building, the faint murmurs of children dreaming of better places, the occasional sob muffled beneath a blanket. And she realized something terrifying.
The beatings were brutal. The hunger gnawed at their ribs. But it was the reshaping of their minds that did the most damage. It wasn't just about control. It was about transformation. They weren't being punished.
They were being rewritten.
Each lesson, each slogan, each hour spent repeating the lies—they were tools used to erase the past, to blur the edges of their identity, to turn them into shadows who obeyed, who never questioned, who never remembered.
But Anna remembered.
She remembered Mama's voice. Calvin's giggle. The softness of a warm bed. The smell of pancakes in the morning. She held those memories close like coals, warm and flickering, keeping her alive in the frost of this place.
And she wasn't broken. Not yet.
If there was even a flicker of fire left inside her, she'd protect it. She'd guard it with everything she had. Because it wasn't just about surviving anymore. It was about resisting. About refusing to become what they wanted.
She turned toward Calvin, sleeping peacefully now, one hand curled beneath his cheek.
For him, she would fight.
For Mila.
For Elias.
For all the children who had forgotten how to dream.
She wouldn't let the fire go out.
Not now.
Not ever.