The darkness of the Cold Room didn't break Kiara, but the cold did.
She had fallen asleep curled into a ball on the damp floor, her dried blood sticking to the wood. She was dreaming of a swing set and a boy with a protective scowl when—
Splash!
A bucket of icy well-water hit her square in the chest. Kiara gasped, her lungs seizing as the freezing liquid soaked into her thin dress. She scrambled backward, her small, trembling hands scraping against the floor as she blinked away the sting of the water.
"Get up, Jinx," the cleaning girl muttered, looking at Kiara with disgust as if she were a cockroach. "It's morning. Move before you make the floor rot just by sitting on it."
Kiara didn't say a word. She just shivered, her teeth chattering so hard it made her head ache. The girl dropped a chipped plastic plate onto the wet floor. On it sat a few crusts of grey bread and a spoonful of cold, congealed porridge—the leftovers from the other children's breakfast.
"Eat it and get to your room," the girl snapped. "And don't you dare look at me. I'm not getting infected with your bad luck today. I've got a date on Friday."
Kiara scrambled to pick up the bread, her blue-tinged fingers clutching the crusts like they were gold. She ate as she walked, her bare feet leaving damp prints on the stone. She didn't head for the playground; she headed for the corner of her dormitory, wanting to disappear before the bullies woke up.
But the orphanage was already buzzing.
A heavy knock sounded at the front gates—not the rhythmic, polite knock of a social worker, but the heavy thud of a man in a hurry.
Kiara watched from the shadows of the hallway as a tall, weary-looking man was led into the foyer. Beside him stood a girl who looked like she had been carved out of flint. She was seven years old, her clothes torn and covered in city soot, but her eyes weren't filled with the "orphan fear." They were sharp. Defensive.
"Found her near the docks," the man told the Matron. "Living in a crate. No name, no family. Just a survivor."
The Matron's eyes lit up—not with kindness, but with the thrill of a new project. For the first time in years, the "Cursed Angel" was forgotten. Every head in the building turned toward the girl in the torn clothes. The bullies stopped whispering about Kiara to stare at the newcomer.
From the darkness of her corner, Kiara watched the new girl. She felt a strange, flickering spark in her chest. She knew what it was like to be the "new" thing. She knew what it was like to be a secret.
But as the new girl looked around the room, her gaze passed over the Matron, over the bullies, and landed squarely on the small, shivering girl in the wet dress.
For the first time in a year, someone didn't look away.